Zuleime sprang around with her eyes all wide and ablaze, like one suddenly waking up from a terrible dream, and not yet quite brought to consciousness. Georgia drew her away from the dangerous proximity of the torrent. Zuleime threw her hands to her head with sudden recollection and intensity of consciousness, and sunk down at the feet of the lady, clasping her knees, and exclaiming— “Oh! you don’t know what you’ve done! Why did you pluck me back! There was peace there! The only peace left for me!” “You are frantic, miserable girl! _What_ is the meaning of this madness?” asked Georgia, in a stern, curt tone. Convulsive sobs, shaking as with a tempest the form of the girl, alone answered her. “_What_ will your father—what will your intended husband think of this? Say! Speak! What do you suppose Major Cabell—” “Oh! _do not_ speak of him!” gasped the girl. “Will you tell me what you mean by this conduct?” sneered Georgia. “Mamma—” commenced Zuleime but her voice broke down. “Zuleime! come get up and come home!” “Oh, no, no, no! _Not_ home! _Never_ home again!” “Once more, what am I to think of this frantic behaviour.” “Mamma!” “Don’t call me mamma, if you please! It may not be pleasant or politic, to acknowledge that tender relationship. But explain yourself, lest I bring you to those who will demand the explanation with less forbearance!” “Mercy! mercy! I will tell you anything! everything! Only do not kill my father with the story!” “Speak, then!” “Lady—” “Well!” But some feeling stronger than fear, gripped her heart and stopped her speech. “Zuleime! How long will you try my patience?” “Madam—” Another hesitation. “_What_, then?” “I have been—a wife! I am—a widow! I am fated to be—” “Well,” asked Georgia, in a deep-drawn breath between her teeth, “you are fated to be—” “_A mother!_” breathed the girl, in a dying voice, covering her face with both hands, and sinking lower on the ground. There was a long, deep pause, filled up with the roar of the torrent and the moan of the rising wind. Suddenly up sprang Zuleime, with fire in her eyes, and made a dash towards the water. The swift arm of Georgia caught and dragged her back. No word was spoken yet. The impulse of frenzy passed off, and Zuleime sunk into her old posture. “Get up,” at last said Georgia, half-shaking, half-putting the girl upon her feet. “Get up and come with me.” And she drew her to a fragment of rock, at a safer distance, pushed her down on the seat, and dropped herself by her side. “Now, tell me of this,” she commanded, in a hard, curt tone. “You were married?” “Yes, yes!” “Who was your husband?” “Ah, you know! You _must_ know! He who died in yonder field of blood, under the tomahawk of the Shoshonowa—I am very wretched!” “Stay!—is this true—about the marriage, I mean?” “True as God’s Word!”