"Where is she gone, Madeline?" he at length breathed, in a scarcely audible whisper.
"Only to my mother's room," replied Madeline, in accents scarcely louder.
"And tell me where we are?" he added, after another pause.
"At Geneva, dearest Alfred. But you must not speak."
"At Geneva!" he repeated, then lay still a very long time, as if endeavouring to recall past events: and she noted with alarm, that pale though he was, after his long illness, a faint flush, was overspreading his brow. He feebly grasped her arm, and looked in her face with an earnestness of expression which she perfectly understood.
"No! no!" she replied, "she was only ill—faint—but she is now quite well, but indeed, you must not speak, dearest Alfred."
"Madeline! is all this true?"
"Yes, quite true: and now, dear Alfred, you must lay still till the doctor comes."
He tried to obey her for a time.
"I cannot, Madeline," he at length whispered, and then, though much exhausted, he continued in broken accents, "the desire—to know—how—it has all happened—will hurt me more—than listening to your—sweet—voice.—So tell me all—and then—I will be composed."