Mohun's expression was singular as he uttered these words. The prisoner
looked at him as he was speaking with an indescribable smile. I can
only compare it to that of the swordsman about to deliver a mortal
lunge.

"My brother," she said, in accents as soft as a flute; "detained
elsewhere, do you say, sir? You are mistaken in supposing so. He
commanded the cavalry with which you were fighting to-night!"

At these words, uttered in a strange, mocking voice, I saw Mohun start
as if a rattlesnake had bitten his heel. With all his self-possession
he could not restrain this exhibition of emotion.

"Impossible! You are deceiving me--"

The prisoner interrupted him with a gay laugh.

"So you do not believe me," she said; "you think, my dear sir, that
everybody is dead but yourself! Dismiss that idea from your mind! _I_
am not dead, since we have the pleasure of again meeting in the flesh.
_He_ is not dead! No! it was Colonel Mortimer Darke whom you fought
to-night. This is his horse which I borrowed to take a short ride. I have
been captured, but _he_ is neither dead nor captured, and you will
doubtless receive some friendly message from him soon."

Under the mocking accents and the satirical glance, it was easy to read
profound hatred. The speaker could not hide that. At that moment she
resembled a tigress about to spring.

Mohun had listened with absorbing attention as his companion spoke;