Off she started, reached her post, and hearing no noise except that of quiet footsteps, she thought they were those of friends, and held up her lamp to guide them.
When the party came forth, with their only captive, Fulvius was perfectly furious. It was worse than a total failure: it was ridiculous—a poor mouse come out of the bowels of the earth. He rallied Corvinus till the wretch winced and foamed; then suddenly he asked, “And where is Torquatus?” He heard the account of his sudden disappearance, told in as many ways as the Dacian guard’s adventure: but it annoyed him greatly. He had no doubt whatever, in his own mind, that he had been duped by his supposed victim, who had escaped into the unsearchable mazes of the cemetery. If so, this captive would know, and he determined to question her. He stood before her, therefore, put on his most searching and awful look, and said to her sternly, “Look at me, woman, and tell me the truth.”
“I must tell you the truth without looking at you, sir,” answered the poor girl, with her cheerfullest smile and softest voice; “do you not see that I am blind?”
“Blind!” all exclaimed at once, as they crowded to look at her. But over the features of Fulvius there passed the slightest possible emotion, just as much as the wave that runs, pursued by a playful breeze, over the ripe meadow. A knowledge had flashed into his mind, a clue had fallen into his hand.
“It will be ridiculous,” he said, “for twenty soldiers to march through the city, guarding a blind girl. Return to your quarters, and I will see you are well rewarded. You, Corvinus, take my horse, and go before to your father, and tell him all, I will follow in a carriage with the captive.”
“No treachery, Fulvius,” he said, vexed and mortified. “Mind you bring her. The day must not pass without a sacrifice.”
“Do not fear,” was the reply.
Fulvius, indeed, was pondering whether, having lost one spy, he should not try to make another. But the placid gentleness of the poor beggar perplexed him more than the boisterous zeal of the gamester, and her sightless orbs defied him more than the restless roll of the toper’s. Still, the first thought that had struck him he could yet pursue. When alone in a carriage with her, he assumed a soothing tone, and addressed her. He knew she had not overheard the last dialogue.
“My poor girl,” he said, “how long have you been blind?”
“All my life,” she replied.