When Virginia aroused again to consciousness, her eyes met the features of Alfred Bernard, as he knelt over her form. Not yet realizing her situation, she gazed wildly about her, and in a hoarse, husky whisper, which fell horridly on the ear, she said, “Where is my father?” “At home, Virginia,” replied Bernard, softly, chafing her white temples the while—“And you are here in Accomac. Look up, Virginia, and see that you are not without a friend even here.” “Oh, now, yes, now I know it all,” she shrieked, springing up with a wild bound, and rushing like a maniac toward the door. “They have killed him! I have slept here, instead of begging his life. I have murdered him! Ha! you, sir, are you the jailer? I should know your face.” “Nay, do not speak thus, Virginia,” said Bernard, holding her gently in his arms, “Hansford is yet alive. Be calm.” “Hansford! I thought he was dead!” said the poor girl, her mind still wandering. “Did not Mamalis—no—she is dead—all are dead—ha? where am I? Sure this is not Windsor Hall. Nay, what am I talking about. Let me see;” and she pressed her hand to her forehead, and smoothed back her fair hair, as she strove to collect her thoughts. “Ah! now I know,” she said at length, more calmly, “I beg your pardon, Mr. Bernard, I have acted very foolishly, I fear. But you will forgive a poor distracted girl.” “I promised you my influence with the governor,” said Bernard, “and I do not yet despair of effecting my object. And so be calm.” “Despair!” said Virginia, bitterly, “as well might you expect to turn a river from the sea, as to turn the relentless heart of that bigoted old tyrant from blood. And yet, I thank you, Mr. Bernard, and beg that you will leave no means untried to preserve my poor doomed Hansford. You see I am quite calm now, and should you fail in your efforts to procure a pardon, may I ask one last melancholy favour at your hands! I would see him once more before we part, forever.” And to prove how little she knew her own heart, the poor girl burst into a renewed agony of grief. “Calm your feelings, then, dear Virginia,” said Bernard, “and you shall see him. But by giving way thus, you would unman him.” “You remind me of my duty, my friend,” said Virginia, controlling herself, with a strong effort, “and I will not again forget it in my selfish grief. Shall we go now?” “Remain here, but a few moments, patiently,” he replied, “and I will seek the governor, and urge him to relent. If I fail, I will return to you.” Leaving the young girl once more to her own sad reflections, Alfred Bernard left the room.