Then followed a long account of the catastrophe, with every revolting circumstance detailed with horrid distinctness. The old man heard and groaned at intervals. Carolyn shuddered and wept by turns. And even Georgia’s voice broke down for pity and horror. But _she_—the wife—the widow—she—the fearfully bereaved—she sat and listened to all the murderous story. She heard all—all. How he had been set upon by six or seven—how he had singly battled with them, when all his party were lying dead around him—how then he tried to escape such fearful odds—how he was felled, and dragged down from his horse—the young, warm beating heart was cloven through—the fair hair torn from the bleeding skull—the fingers chopped off for the sake of the ring—Frank wore but one—a simple gold ring, with a coral set, that she had taken from her slender fore finger, and contrived to squeeze past the joint, and get it comfortably upon his little finger. And they had cut it off in their haste to get it. How real that trifle made the whole horror, that might else have seemed like a nightmare! She sat and heard it all—all. And no motion, no tear, no cry escaped her. At last, when the reading was over, and they were released from the spell of horror, old Mr. Clifton thought of Zuleime, and feared its effect on her. He turned to look at her. At first he saw nothing amiss. She sat so naturally, though still, with her knitting in her hands, as though only stopped for an instant, and her face turned in a listening attitude toward Georgia, who had ceased to read. “It is all over—there is no more to hear, Zuleime, my darling,” said the old man. But she did not move or speak. She seemed to look and listen intently. “Zuleime,” said her father gently. She remained perfectly still. “_Zuleime!_” he exclaimed, in a louder tone. She did not hear. “ZULEIME!!” he cried, a third time, going towards her, to seize her shoulder. But he started back in affright. They were all gazing at her now. “My God! she is DEAD!” ejaculated the father. “She is MAD!” exclaimed Georgia. They gathered around her. She knew it not. She sat there as if frozen into that attitude—her face white and hard—her lips bloodless and stiff, and her eyes still fixed towards the spot from which Georgia had been reading, but beyond it—beyond it—into the far distance, as if fascinated by some spectacle there of unutterable horror! “Zuleime! what are you looking at? Speak to me, my child!” cried her father, in great distress. He might as well have expected a statue to speak. Carolyn took the knitting away, which, through all this, had dangled between her stiff, unconscious fingers. Georgia rubbed her hands. Carolyn bathed her face. The old man cried to her—all in vain! They might as well have performed these offices for the dead.