The car started again. The _gentleman_, furious at the turn of the tide,
cried out, "Ho, ho! here's a pretty preacher of the gospel of equality!
why, ladies and gentlemen, this high-flyer, who presumes to lecture us,
is nothing but a"--
The sentence was cut short in mid-career, the insolent sneer dashed out
of his face,--face and form prone on the floor of the car,--while over
him bent and blazed the young officer, whose entrance, a little while
before, nobody had heeded.
Spurning the prostrate body at his feet, he turned to Francesca, for it
was she, and stretched out his hand,--his left hand,--his only one. It
was time; all the heat, and passion, and color, had died out, and she
stood there shivering, a look of suffering in her face.
"Miss Ercildoune! you are ill,--you need the air,--allow me!" drawing
her hand through his arm, and taking her out with infinite deference and
care.
"Thank you! a moment's faintness,--it is over now," as they reached the
sidewalk.
"No, no, you are too ill to walk,--let me get you a carriage."
Hailing one that was passing by, he put her in, his hand lingering on
hers, lingering on the folds of her dress as he bent to arrange it; his
eyes clinging to her face with a passionate, woeful tenderness. "It is
two years since I saw you, since I have heard from you," he said, his
voice hoarse with the effort to speak quietly.
Pages:
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113