A few minutes brought them to the door, and poor Sarah found herself once more in her own cabin, but in such a state as neutralized most of her father’s resentment.  When the driver had gone, Donnel came in again, and was about to wreak upon her one of those fits of impetuous fury, in which, it was true, he seldom indulged, but which, when wrought to a high state of passion, were indeed frightful.

“Now,” he began, “in the name of all that’s”—­he paused, however, for on looking closely at her, there appeared something in her aspect so utterly subversive of resentment, that he felt himself disarmed at once.  Her face was as pale as his own, but the expression of it was so chaste, so mournful, and yet so beautiful, that his tongue refused its office.

“Sarah,” said he, “what is the matter with, you?—­account for all this—­I don’t understand it.”

She rose with great difficulty, and, tottering over towards him, laid her head upon his bosom, and looking up with a smile of melancholy tenderness into his face, burst into tears.

“Father,” said she, “it is not worth your while to be angry with Sarah now.  I heard words from your lips this night that would make me forgive you a thousand crimes.  I heard you say that you loved me—­loved me better than anything else in this world.  I’m glad I know it, for that will be all the consolation I will have on my bed of death—­an’ there it is, father,” she said, pointing to that which she always occupied; “help me over to it now, for I feel that I will never rise from it more.”

Her father spoke not, but assisted her to the bed from which the old nurse, who had fallen asleep in it, now rose.  He then went into the open air for a few minutes, but soon returned, and going over to the bedside where she lay, he looked upon her long and earnestly.

“Father,” said she, “I only did my duty this night.  I knew, indeed, I would never recover it—­but then she risked her life for me, an’ why shouldn’t I do as much for her?”

The Prophet still looked upon her, but spoke not a word; his lips were closely compressed, his hands tightly clasped, and his piercing eyes almost immovable.  Minute after minute thus passed, until nearly half an hour had elapsed, and Sarah dreadfully exhausted by what she had undergone, found her eyes beginning to close in an unsettled and feverish slumber.  At length he said, in a tone of voice which breathed of tenderness itself—­

“Sleep, dear Sarah—­dear Sarah, sleep.”

She apparently was asleep, but not so as to be altogether unconscious of his words, for, in spite of illness and fatigue, a sweet and serene smile stole gently over her pale face, rested on it for a little, and again, gradually, and with a mournful placidity died away.  Her father sighed deeply, and turning to the bedside, said—­

“It is useless to ask her anything this night, Biddy.  Can you tell me what became of her, or how she got out?”