“I was told that an English officer is ill, and requires aid,” she said. “I therefore desired that he might be brought here. I will feel your pulse, sir, that I may judge what remedies to apply.”
Jack was not surprised that she did not recognise him, and he thought it better not to make himself known to her at first. He felt however great disappointment at the non-appearance of Elizabeth; still, till he had told Dame Pearson who he was, he could not ask after her. From what the negro said, however, he still hoped that she might be in the house. The dame, after consulting with her attendant, retired again, saying that she would prepare such remedies as were most likely to benefit him. He thanked her, begging that they might be applied soon, for he felt so ill that, stout of heart as he was, he could not help at times believing that he should not recover.
“We will do our best for you, but the issue is in the hands of God,” answered the dame calmly. “However, in the meantime I will send my daughter that she may read to you from His Word. Thence you will obtain more comfort than man can bestow.”
Saying this she left the room. Jack’s eyes kept continually turned towards the door, and in another minute it opened, and a fair girl entered the room. She was taller, however, and of larger proportions than the little Elizabeth he had so often thought of. She carried a Bible in her hand, and taking a seat at a short distance from him, scarcely giving him more than a slight glance, opened the Book.
“You will undoubtedly draw comfort, as we have done, sir, from God’s blessed Word. I will therefore read to you from the Psalms of David, who was a man tried and afflicted.”
She commenced reading in a low, gentle voice. Jack could with difficulty refrain from making himself known, for he at once recognised that sweet voice which he had known so well. She read on for some short time, and then turned to passages in other parts of the Book which she thought calculated to bring comfort to one in sickness and distress.
Jack at length could restrain himself no longer.
“Elizabeth,” he exclaimed, “Elizabeth de Mertens! do you not know me?”
She flew to his side, and trembling took his hand which he stretched out towards her.
“Who are you?” she exclaimed. “Yes, yes, I know you, I know your voice! Jack Deane you are—yes, you must be! But oh, how did you come here? How do you know me, and that name by which you call me? I remember it well. It was my own name, though I had well-nigh forgotten it. Have you come to take me away from this dreadful place? and oh, from that dreadful man too?”