Pauline Montier was confounded by this outbreak.  She had expected no such word as this she heard.  It terrified her, for she was a loving woman, and she thought she heard in the voice of her daughter the voice of a woman who loved,—­the impassioned, daring voice of one whom love incited to action such as sober reason never would attempt.  She repented already the words she had spoken to her husband.  She had no power then, could not prevail then, or the misgivings which sent Adolphus weeping into the wood, and not in search of doctor or colonel, would have drawn him back to her side, and against their love and their authority this girl had not prevailed.  A question trembled on her lips.  But how should she ask it of her child?  She could not ask it of her child,—­but as woman of woman.  The simplest and the shortest speech was best; and far away were curiosity and authority.

“Elizabeth, do you love this prisoner?”

The answer did not linger.

“He is dying,—­a noble man perishing unrighteously!  Oh, my mother, in that land there is a lady waiting to know why the arm of the Lord so long delays!  He shall not die a prisoner!  She loves him,—­he loves her.  I will give them to each other.  Only keep him alive till I come.”

“My child!”

“Why do you weep?”—­but Elizabeth, so speaking, bowed to the floor by her mother’s side, and wept with her, and the tender arms maternal clasped her close; and the girl did not see when her mother’s eyes looked upward, nor did she hear when her mother’s voice said, with a saint’s entreaty, and a lover’s faith, “O Saviour!”

That night Elizabeth went for the tray which her father had left in the prisoner’s room when he carried him his supper.  No danger that Adolphus would stand to gossip now with any man, for a moment.  His heart was sore at the prospect of his daughter’s departure, at the prospect of actual separation, every feature of which state of being he distinctly anticipated; and yet he would have scorned himself, had he thrown in the way anything like the shadow of an impediment to her departure from Foray.  So far from that, he was already doing everything, in act and thought, by which that going might be made more certain and immediate.

Elizabeth found the prisoner sitting before his untasted supper.  She went up the room at a rapid pace.

“Strength does not come of fasting,” said she, as she glanced at the table.

“Appetite does not come of torpor,” was the reply, spoken almost as quickly; he seemed to be echoing her tone.  She looked at him surprised; so much energy of speech she had not expected of him, and never before had heard.

“I must wait for the tray,” said she; and she took her usual stand by the window.  “Eat something to please my mother,—­she will be so troubled.”

At this he took his spoon and tasted the porridge, which had grown cold in the dish before him.