anxious look.

"He has but fainted from loss of blood," said Beverly. "Harold, where is
my sister?"

As he spoke, Oriana, who, in the fresh night air, had recovered from her
swoon, pale and with dishevelled hair, appeared at the cabin-door.
Harold and Beverly sought to lead her out before her eyes fell upon
Arthur's bleeding form; but she had already seen the pale, calm face,
clotted with blood, but with the beautiful sad smile still lingering
upon the parted lips. She appeared to see neither Harold nor her
brother, but only those tranquil features, above which the angel of
Death seemed already to have brushed his dewy wing. She put aside
Beverly's arm, which was extended to support her, and thrust him away as
if he had been a stranger. She unloosed her hand from Harold's
affectionate grasp, and with a long and suppressed moan of intense
anguish, she kneeled down in the little pool of blood beside the
extended form, with her hands tightly clasped, and wept bitterly.

They raised her tenderly, and assured her that Arthur was not dead.

"Oh, no! oh, no!" she murmured, as the tears streamed out afresh, "he
must not die! He must not die for _me_! He is so good! so brave! A
child's heart, with the courage of a lion. Oh, Harold! why did you not
save him?"

But as she took Harold's hand almost reproachfully, she perceived that
it was black and burnt, and he too was suffering; and she leaned her
brow upon his bosom and sobbed with a new sorrow.