Nor was it any wonder if she did not perceive that she
was already rewarded for the doing of the painful task, at the
memory of which her heart ached and rebelled, by the fresh outburst
in that same troubled heart of the half-choked spring of her love to
the playmate of her childhood. Had it fallen, as she would have
judged so much fairer, to some one else of the many in the populous
place to defeat Richard's intent and secure his person, she would
have both suffered and loved less. The love, I repeat, was the
reward of the duty done.
For a long time she tossed sleepless, for what she had just passed
through had so thorougly possessed her imagination that, ever as her
wearied brain was sinking under the waves of sleep, up rose the face
of Richard from its depths, deathlike, with matted curls and
bloodstained brow, and drove her again ashore on the rocks of
wakefulness. By and by the form of her suffering changed, and then
instead of the face of Richard it was his voice, ever as she reached
the point of oblivion, calling aloud for help in a tone of mingled
entreaty and reproach, until at last she could no longer resist the
impression that she was warned to go and save him from some
impending evil.
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