Maria, though for a time speechless, was speedily, through the exertions of her deliverer, restored to consciousness.  Even before she was capable of thanking him or of speaking to him—­yea, before her eyes had opened to meet his—­he had gazed with admiration on her beautiful features, which were lovely, though the shadow of death was then over them, almost its hand upon them.  In truth, he had never gazed upon a fairer face, and when she spoke, he had never listened to a sweeter or a gentler voice.  He had been beneath an Indian sun, where the impulses of the heart are fervid as the clime, and where, when the sun is gazed upon, its influence is acknowledged.  But, had she been less beautiful than she was, and her features less lovely to look upon, there was a strong something in the very manner and accident of their being brought into each other’s society, which appealed more powerfully to the heart than beauty could.  It at least begot an interest in the fate of each other; and an interest so called is never very widely separated from affection.  The individual who had saved Maria’s life was Lieutenant Morris.

He conveyed her first to a peasant’s cottage, and afterwards to her father’s villa.  He knew nothing of the feeling of hatred that existed between their families; and when Mr. Sim heard his name, though for a moment it caused a glow to pass over his face, every other emotion was speedily swallowed up in gratitude towards the deliverer of his child; and when Maria was sufficiently recovered to thank him, though she knew him to be the son of her father’s enemy, it was with tears too deep for words—­tears that told what eloquence would have failed to express.  Even Mrs. Sim, for the time, forgot her hatred of the parents in her obligations to the son.

When, however, the young lieutenant returned to Morris House, and made mention of the adventure in which he had been engaged, and spoke at the same time, in the ardour of youthful admiration, of the beauty and gentleness of the fair being he had rescued from untimely death, the cheeks of his sisters became pale, their eyeballs distended as if with horror.  The word “wretch!” escaped from his mother’s lips, and she seemed struggling with smothered rage.  He turned towards his father for an explanation of the change that had so suddenly come over the behaviour of his mother and sisters.

“Son,” said the squire, “I had rather thou hadst perished than that a son of mine should have put forth his hand to assist a dog of the man whose daughter thou hast saved!”

On being made acquainted with the cause of the detestation that existed between the two families, Lieutenant Morris, in some degree, yielded to the whisperings of wounded pride, and began to regret that he had entered the house of a man who had offered an indignity to his father that was not to be forgiven.  But he thought also of the beauty of Maria, of the sweetness of her smile, and of the tears of voiceless gratitude which he had seen bedimming the lustre of her bright eyes.