Next instant, Gerald felt his wrist seized in an iron grip. ‘Difficult, I grant you. The terror faded from her eyes. The curtain before one mystery was torn aside, and she saw in reality what lay behind the impulse that had led her into the young man's room. She tightened her bandage and sat back, biting her lip. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. Crossing them, he ascended an eminence, which, from its singular shape, seems to have been the site of a Roman encampment, and which commands a magnificent prospect. ‘And you come to me, thinking yourself half French, and expect me to take you in. .
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