It was Miss Penelope who first found her and clamored to know
what had happened; but she did not stop to answer, and went on turning
back the covers of the bed--the last thing needing to be done--and
listening for the sounds of the horses' hoofs. They could now be heard
approaching with that sad, slow, solemn rhythm--that subdued beat, beat,
beat, of horses' feet--which has fallen on all our bruised hearts as an
awful part of the funeral march. She ran out of the room and downstairs,
drawing her skirt away from Miss Penelope's frightened grasp, and
passing William Pressley, as if his restraining words had been no more
than the gusty wind. She was waiting outside when the three horsemen
drew up at the door. The burden which they bore was still apparently
lifeless, and with a sickening pang of fear she bent over the parted
lips as they lowered him from the saddle, thinking for one despairing
moment that he no longer breathed. But the faint flutter went on, and
she gave way so that he might be borne up the stairs, and running
before, she told them where to lay him down.
Pages:
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336