The Squire came up to Rona and held the paper to her. She took it and gazed for a moment with blurred eyes. Then her vision cleared and she saw:—
"Felix missing. Fear foul play. Vronsky."
She stared upon the message, her heart contracting till the pain was physical. Was this to be the way out for her? Was the man who had rescued her, and trusted her, and loved her to die at last a violent death at the hand of inhuman wretches who called themselves brothers to humanity? The oppression of her spirits threatened to choke her. She cried out, in a tone she hardly knew to be her own.
"Denzil! Denzil? Tell me it isn't true!"
He ran to her, his arms held out, his sympathy ready to be poured forth upon her.
"Oh, don't! oh, don't!" she pleaded, not choosing her words. "Don't behave so, when we have this to consider! What are we doing here in England safe and happy, when perhaps they are torturing him to death!"
Denzil drew out a handkerchief, passed it across his face, and collected himself. "I beg your pardon. This—this is terrible. But he has brought it upon himself—as a man soweth——"
"Oh!" cried Rona, unable to repress a strong shudder of disgust.
He stood silent a moment, surprised and confused. The news, following upon his moments of unrestraint, had unstrung him somewhat.
"What," he asked vacantly, "what ought we to do?"