“It was not a willful misrepresentation. It was a misapprehension. The few who escaped to tell the tale of the massacre, no doubt had seen him struck down; and don’t you see in the terror and confusion, they imagined the rest—knowing perfectly well that scalping and rifling the bodies are the almost invariable custom of the savages? And then remember, Catherine, the body taken for the corpse of Captain Fairfax, was so rifled and mutilated, as to be unrecognizable, except upon circumstantial evidence.” “So indeed it was said to be! I would the mistake had never been made though! It killed Zuleime!” “Catherine, my child, I have no idea that Zuleime was really drowned.” “Madam!” “Do you not know, Catherine, that any body drowned in that part of the river where the supposed signs of her suicide were found, must have come to light. Don’t you know that the current is very rapid there, and that a ledge of rocks crosses the river a few yards below it, upon which her body must have been thrown, if she had been in the river at all? And, Catherine, if I have never breathed this thought before, it was upon account of poor Carolyn. I knew that in her weak, depressed state of mind and body, she could better bear the belief of Zuleime’s death, than the frightful uncertainty of her fate. You are discreet, Kate; you will not breathe this to Carolyn, or to any one, lest it should reach her ear.” “Never! And do you know, dear Mrs. Clifton, I have sometimes had the thought that Zuleime might yet be living—and I dared not indulge the hope secretly—much less breathe it aloud.” “And what was _your_ reason for such a supposition, Catherine?” “Why my thought was not so well founded—so logical as yours. I knew nothing about the peculiarities of the river. My thought was only a vague hope, and it agitated me so much as to interfere with my practical duties. I had to banish it.” “You are so sensitive, so sympathetic, my dear girl. Well, Kate, no more exciting talk to-night. We will return thanks to God for these glad tidings, and then retire to rest.” CHAPTER XXIII. ZULEIME. Among a jumbled heap of murky buildings.—KEATS.