“No—I dared not trust myself to speak; but I have given her a token of recognition.”
“In writing? I saw you. She knows, then, that you are here?”
“By this time she should—that is, if she has found an opportunity to look at the paper.”
“She will find that, I daresay. Oh, she is beautiful—very beautiful. I do not wonder, sir, that you love her! Were I a man—Knows she that I too am here?”
“Not yet. I feared to tell her, even in writing. I feared that in the sudden transport of joy which such a discovery would produce, she might proclaim it to your father—perhaps to him!”
“You are right—there might have been a risk of that. She must not know that I am here, till we can caution her against declaring it. How do you propose to act?”
“I have come to take counsel from you. If we could only make known to her that you are present, she might find an opportunity of stealing forth; and in the darkness, all the rest could be accomplished. Even to-night—why not this very night?”
“Why not?” echoed the huntress, catching eagerly at the idea. “The sooner the better. But how am I to see her? Should I enter their camp? Perhaps—”
“If you write to her, I—”
“Would, stranger? say could. Writing is not one of my accomplishments. My father cared little to teach me—my mother still less: she cared not at all. Alas! poor ignorant me: I cannot even write my own name!”