Chapter 9 - Page 2

rather
what you were yesterday, caring for the wounded, for the aged, for
every one but yourself--exposing even your dear life among the
showers of the Welsh arrows, when doing so could give courage to
others; while I--shame on me--could but tremble, sob, and weep,
and needed all the little wit I have to prevent my shouting with
the wild cries of the Welsh, or screaming and groaning with those
of our friends who fell around me."

"Alas! Rose," answered her mistress, "you may at pleasure indulge
your fears to the verge of distraction itself--you have a father
to fight and watch for you. Mine--my kind, noble, and honoured
parent, lies dead on yonder field, and all which remains for me is
to act as may best become his memory. But this moment is at least
mine, to think upon and to mourn for him."

So saying, and overpowered by the long-repressed burst of filial
sorrow, she sunk down on the banquette which ran along the inside
of the embattled parapet of the platform, and murmuring to
herself, "He is gone for ever!" abandoned herself to the extremity
of grief. One hand grasped unconsciously the weapon which she
held, and served, at the same time, to prop her forehead, while
the tears, by which she was now for the first time relieved,
flowed in torrents from her eyes, and her sobs seemed so
convulsive, that Rose almost feared her heart was bursting. Her
affection and sympathy dictated at once the kindest course which
Eveline's condition permitted. Without attempting to control the
torrent of grief in its full current, she gently sat her down
beside the mourner, and possessing herself of the hand which had
sunk motionless by her side, she alternately pressed it to her
lips, her bosom, and her brow--now covered it with kisses, now
bedewed it with tears, and amid these tokens of the most devoted
and humble sympathy, waited a more composed moment to offer her
little stock of consolation in such deep silence and stillness,
that, as the pale light fell upon the two beautiful young women,
it seemed rather to show a group of statuary, the work of some
eminent sculptor, than beings whose eyes still wept, and whose
hearts still throbbed. At a little distance, the gleaming corslet
of the Fleming, and the dark garments of Father Aldrovand, as they
lay prostrate on the stone steps, might represent the bodies of
those for whom the principal figures were mourning.

After a deep agony of many minutes, it seemed that the sorrows of
Eveline were assuming a more composed character; her convulsive
sobs were changed for long, low, profound sighs, and the course of
her tears, though they still flowed, was milder and less violent.
Her kind attendant, availing herself of these