Betsy felt the hand suddenly dropped, which had been all this time held against the throbbing heart of some one, whose laboured breathing she had distinguished close to her; not by sounds, those were apparently suppressed, but she had felt each warm sigh steal over that side of her neck and cheek. A moment after her hand had been dropped, she heard a slight movement among some loose stones at a little distance. The darkness was such, that she could not see any of the figures present.
David gave away his daughter: the ceremony was concluded, and they all began to make the best of their rugged way homeward. With much ado they got from among tombstones, and fragments of ruins. They passed the stile at the gate, even the bridge, and Betsy could see no traces of any one; but it was still very dark. At length they arrived at David Park’s door; it was opened, and a strong stream of light, pouring from it, crossed the street. David, the clergyman, and a friend of David’s, who had been taken as a witness, went in.
The bride and bridegroom, happening to be a little behind the rest, were following, when, just as Betsy put her foot on the threshold, she heard in the direction of the bridge a plunge, which, though distant, was distinct, from the perfect stillness of the night. She staggered back a few paces, drawing Henry with her.
“Oh, run! run!” she cried, pointing to the bridge, which was in a straight line from where they stood, so that any one who had been upon it might have seen the light of David’s open door, and the figures entering.
“Run where?” asked Henry.
“Yonder! yonder! Didna ye hear yon? I’s amaist sure its John, gane o’ur the brig for love o’ me!”
“And if it be,” replied Henry, “he may go. He shall have no help of mine!”
At this tender and considerate speech from the bridegroom, his young bride fainted away. She was carried into the house, without any one but Henry knowing the cause of her illness.