[CHAPTER XVII.]
"HAD I BUT MET YOU FIRST."
"But cruel fate that shapes our ends,
Dark doom that poet love attends,
The fate unhappy Petrarch sung
In fair Italia's burning tongue;
Such fate as reckless tears apart
The tendrils of the breaking heart,
From every prop where it would twine,
That cruel fate, alas, is mine,
For love of you!"
—Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
Lovers and poets rave of voices so dear and sweet that they can call one back almost from the borders of the grave.
Perhaps there is some little truth in those romantic ravings.
Precious Winans had been lying back as mute and still as some marble image of a dead maiden, but those frenzied caresses, those sobbing whispers, "My love! my darling!" sent the warm blood bounding sweetly through her veins once more and her eyes opened with a dazed expression.
She saw Lord Chester's face bent close to hers with actual tears in the splendid eyes, and her lips seemed to burn with his kisses. Wildly she struggled out of his arms.
"How dare you kiss me?" she half moaned, trying to be angry.
"Forgive me, Precious, I thought you were dead and it almost drove me mad. Do you not remember the dreadful rattler? I sucked the poison from the wound, but I must take you home at once and send for a physician, although I do not believe there can be any danger. Can you lean on me, dear child—little sister that is to be—and let me lead you to the house?"