“Our poor old friend,” said he, “is overwhelmed with grief to-day. He cannot speak. It is his last visit.”
They passed into the dungeon. Mary was crouching in one corner, white as a corpse. She sprang to her uncle’s arms. She could not speak; she could not weep. Terror had paralyzed the fountains of thought and sorrow.
“I have come to save you, my child,” said the old man, “Courage! and you will be free in ten minutes. Lazarus is in the street waiting for you. Martha is on a beautiful ship waiting for you. In one hour you will be on the blue sea sailing away from this awful city.”
Mary stared at him in wild surprise.
“Free? Lazarus waiting! and Martha?”
The transition from total despair to hope was too much for her weak nerves. She swooned.
The old man knelt by her side, kissing her hands and chafing her temples while the great tears rolled down his cheeks.
“Too bad! too bad!” said Euphorbus, “when time is so precious”—and he busied himself in forcing a stimulus into her mouth.
She revived presently and sat up.
“You say I may be saved, uncle. Now tell me how. I am calm and can comprehend you perfectly.”