The old gaoler came to tell him that she had come and would be glad to
see him; much as he dreaded the meeting there was no avoiding it, and in
a few minutes Yram stood before him.
Both were agitated, but Yram betrayed less of what she felt than my
father. He could only bow his head and cover his face with his hands.
Yram said, "We are old friends; take your hands from your face and let me
see you. There! That is well."
She took his right hand between both hers, looked at him with eyes full
of kindness, and said softly--
"You are not much changed, but you look haggard, worn, and ill; I am
uneasy about you. Remember, you are among friends, who will see that no
harm befalls you. There is a look in your eyes that frightens me."
As she spoke she took the wine out of her basket, and poured him out a
glass, but rather to give him some little thing to distract his
attention, than because she expected him to drink it--which he could not
do.
She never asked him whether he found her altered, or turned the
conversation ever such a little on to herself; all was for him; to soothe
and comfort him, not in words alone, but in look, manner, and voice. My
father knew that he could thank her best by controlling himself, and
letting himself be soothed and comforted--at any rate so far as he could
seem to be.
Pages:
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252