"Sit down there, my girl, and tell me all," he said, trying to appear composed, while he was in reality singularly moved.
"I come, Mr. Harkaway," said Theodora, who had now regained all her calmness, "to bring you the most welcome news that ever gladdened your ear--that ever sent balm and comfort to your bruised heart."
Jack turned pale; he thought he had heard her speak of his boys before leaving his room.
"Speak on," he said, his voice faltering.
"Tell me, sir, what could I say that would restore happiness to you--to your wife--to your friends and home? What could I say to lift the veil of mourning from your house and hearts?--to restore the former gaiety to this tomb-like place."
Jack Harkaway listened as one in a dream.
"Girl," he said, in a voice that was almost inaudible, "you know not what you say."
"I am perfectly cognisant of all," she replied.
"Then your errand here is to torture me?"
"You wrong me."
Harkaway looked her sternly in the face.
And Theodora bore his glance without flinching.
"Your manner tells me," he said, "that you know better than any one what alone could restore happiness here."
"You are right."
And she gravely inclined her head as she answered.
"And you know it is impossible," he said.
"It is not."
"Not impossible!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Harkaway. "Know you what you say?"
"Perfectly."
"Girl, girl," cried Harkaway, pa.s.sionately, "the grave can not give back its dead."
"It does--it has."
Harkaway gasped for breath.
She was about to speak on, when the ghastly pallor of his countenance and its wild, haggard expression frightened her.
"Girl, go on, tell me," he cried excitedly; "do not play with me."
"Calm yourself, Mr. Harkaway, pray--"
"Go on, go on."
"You alarm me."
"Speak, in mercy"s sake," implored Harkaway; "this suspense is ten thousand times worse than all the good or bad news which you could bring me--are you fooling me?" he added springing up and seizing his pistols.
"No."
"Speak on then."
"Your son Jack--"
"Yes, yes; my boy--my own darling brave lad--what of him?"
The girl suddenly turned pale. "Hark," she said, "I think I hear footsteps outside; quick! to the window; I think we are watched," and the girl sank in terror at Jack"s feet.
Harkaway, with one bound, sprang to the window, pistol in hand, ready for use.
But it was a false alarm; and, having satisfied himself that there were no eavesdroppers, Harkaway returned to his seat, and the girl resumed--
"Are you able to bear good news?"
"Yes," he said, with a sickly smile; "the novelty would perhaps affect me--speak then--you said my boy--"
"Lives," answered the girl.
"Impossible," he faltered; "why, Harvey saw their grave."
"And I too saw them in their grave."
"In their grave!" echoed Harkaway; "and yet you say they live."
"Yes."
"Where are they?"
"Close at hand; but I wish to ask you in return--"
"All you will--anything, everything--only bring me back my boys."
"I only ask to save the lives of the men unjustly accused of the murder, and who have been doomed to die to-morrow."
"Granted--why, it was granted unasked," said Harkaway.
"Enough," said the girl; "I see that I may count upon you. Will you come with me to your son and his friend?"
"Yes."
He sprang up with the greatest alacrity, but a sudden fancy crossed him, and he seized the girl by the shoulder.