They unclosed slowly at last, still dim with
the deathly faintness; his head was dizzy and confused; and in his ears
there was a dull, droning sound, like the murmur of a distant sea. As
objects and sounds assumed more distinctness, he became aware of the
figure of a woman sitting on the ground by the side of his couch--her
head buried in her hands--rocking herself ever to and fro, and never
pausing in her low, heart-broken wail. If old tales speak truth, such a
figure might be seen in dark corners of haunted houses; and such a wail
might echo at dead of night through chambers conscious of some fearful
crime. Instinct more than reason revealed to Royston the truth.
The lips that under the thrusts of Russian lances, and through all
subsequent tortures, had guarded so jealously the secret of his agony,
could not repress a groan as they syllabled the name of--Cecil
Tresilyan.
It was so. The brilliant beauty who for two seasons had ruled the world
in which she moved so imperiously--insatiate of conquest, and defying
rivalry--the delicate _aristocrate_ who from her childhood had been used
to every imaginable luxury, and had appreciated them all--was found
again, here, in the gray robe of a Sister of Charity, content to endure
real, bitter hardships, and to witness daily sights from which
womanhood, with all its bravery, must needs recoil.
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