Chapter 29

"She looked on many a face with vacant eye,
On many a token without knowing what;
She saw them watch her without asking why,
And reck'd not who around her pillow sat;
Not speechless, though she spoke not; not a sigh
Relieved her thoughts: dull silence and quick chat
Were tried in vain by by those who served; she gave
No sign, save breath, of having left the grave."

BYRON.

It was a most painful moment to me, when Herman Mordaunt, an hour after all
these facts were established, came to summon me to the presence of Anneke
and Mary Wallace. One gleam of joy, one ray of the sunshine of the heart,
shone on Anneke's sweet countenance as she saw me unharmed enter the
room, but it quickly disappeared in the strong sympathy she felt for the
sufferings of her friend. As for Mary Wallace, death itself could hardly
have left her more colourless, or with features more firmly impressed with
the expression of mental suffering. Anneke was the first to speak.

"God be praised that this dreadful night is passed, and you and my dearest
father are spared!" the precious girl said, with fervour, pressing the hand
that had taken one of hers, in both her own. "For this much, at least, we
can be grateful; would I could add for the safety of us all!"

"Tell me the worst at once, Mr. Littlepage," added Mary Wallace; "I can
bear anything better than uncertainty. Mr. Mordaunt says that you know the
facts better than any one else, and that you must relate them. Speak, then,
though it break my heart to hear it!--is he killed?"

"I hope, through Heaven's mercy, not. Indeed, I think not; though I fear he
must be a prisoner."

"Thank you for that, dear, dear Mr. Littlepage! Oh! Thank you for that,
from the bottom of my heart. But may they not torture him? Do not these
Hurons torture their prisoners? Conceal nothing from me, Corny; you cannot
imagine how much self-command I have, and how well I can behave. Oh!
conceal nothing."

Poor girl! At the very moment she was boasting of her fortitude and ability
to endure, her whole frame was trembling from head to foot, her face was
of the hue of death, and the smile with which she spoke was frightfully
haggard. That pent-up passion, which had so long struggled with her
prudence, could no longer be suppressed. That she really loved Guert, and
that her love would prove stronger than her discretion, I had not doubted,
now, for some months; but, never having before witnessed the strength of
any feeling that had been so long and so painfully suppressed, I confess
that this exhibition of a suffering so intense, in a being so delicate, so
excellent, and so lovely, almost unmanned me. I took Mary Wallace's