During the progress to the city Theodora never spoke, but she seemed stunned rather than suffering; and once, when Lothair, who was walking by her side, caught her glance with his sorrowful and anxious face, she put forth her hand, and pressed his. The ascent to the convent was easy, and the advantages of air and comparative tranquillity which the place offered counterbalanced the risk of postponing, for a very brief space, the examination of the wound. They laid her on their arrival on a large bed, without poles or canopy, in a lofty whitewashed room of considerable dimensions, clean and airy, with high, open windows. There was no furniture in the room except a chair, a table, and a crucifix. Lothair took her in his arms and laid her on the bed; and the common soldier who had hitherto assisted him, a giant in stature, with a beard a foot long, stood by the bedside crying like a child. The chief surgeon almost at the same moment arrived with an aide-de-camp of the general, and her faithful female attendant, and in a few minutes her husband, himself wounded and covered with dust. The surgeon at once requested that all should withdraw except her devoted maid, and they waited his report without, in that deep sad silence which will not despair, and yet dares not hope. When the wound had been examined and probed and dressed, Theodora in a faint voice said, “Is it desperate?” “Not desperate,” said the surgeon, “but serious. All depends upon your perfect tranquility—of mind as well as body.” “Well I am here and cannot move; and as for my mind, I am not only serene, but happy.” “Then we shall get through this,” said the surgeon, encouragingly. “I do not like you to stay with me,” said Theodora. “There are other sufferers besides myself.” “My orders are not to quit you,” said the surgeon, “but I can be of great use within these walls. I shall return when the restorative has had its effect. But remember, if I be wanted, I am always here.” Soon after this Theodora fell into a gentle slumber, and after two hours woke refreshed. The countenance of the surgeon when he again visited her was less troubled; it was hopeful. The day was now beginning to decline; notwithstanding the scenes of tumult and violence near at hand, all was here silent; and the breeze, which had been strong during the whole day, but which blew from the sea, and was very soft, played gratefully upon the pale countenance of the sufferer. Suddenly she said, “What is that?” And they answered and said, “We heard nothing.” “I hear the sound of great guns,” said Theodora. And they listened, and in a moment both the surgeon and the maid heard the sound of distant ordnance. “The liberator is at hand,” said the maid. “I dare say,” said the surgeon. “No,” said Theodora, looking distressed. “The sounds do not come from his direction. Go and see, Dolores; ask, and tell me what are these sounds.”