"It was only a passing spasm, mother. I am--I believe I am already
better," said the daughter, in an agony of suffering that she dared not
evince.

"Come, Helen, lean on me and go to your bed for a while; these sudden
changes and so much exposure has rendered you weak. Come, my dear,
come."

And the poor girl, all trembling and pale, suffered her mother to lead
her to her chamber, where a gentle anodyne soothed her nerves, and she
soon fell to sleep. Had her mother not been little better than blind,
she would have easily read her daughter's heart, and have seen that she
loved with all her woman's soul the man who was that day on trial for
his life. What mattered it to her that he was nameless, a wanderer, a
slaver? She loved him, and that covered each and all faults, however
heinous in the sight of the law. She felt that it was not the outward
associations which made a man. She had looked beneath the surface of his
soul, and had seen the pure crystal depth of his manly heart--frank,
open, and as truthful as day itself. To her he was noble, chivalric and
true, and if all the world had blamed him, if all had called him guilty,
her bosom would have been open to receive him!

Could he have realized this as he lay in chains on board his elder
brother's ship--could he have known that he was really loved by that
fair, sweet and gentle creature, how it would have lightened the weight
of the iron bands he bore--how cheered his drooping spirits.