It was a few minutes after one o'clock. It was not likely that the man
who had charge of the ruins would come to the tower until seven or
eight in the morning. For six or seven hours, therefore, Honoria
Eversleigh was likely to be a prisoner--for six or seven hours she
would have to endure the hateful presence of the man whose treachery
had placed her in this hideous position.
Despair reigned in her heart, entire and overwhelming despair. When
released from her prison, she might hurry back to the castle. But who
would believe a story so wild, so improbable, as that which she would
have to tell?
Would her husband believe her? Would he, who had to all appearance
withdrawn his love from her for no reason whatever--would he believe in
her purity and truth, when circumstances conspired in damning evidence
of her guilt? A sense of hopeless misery took possession of her heart;
but no cry of anguish broke from her pale lips. She sat motionless as a
statue, with her eyes fixed upon the eastern horizon, counting the
moments as they passed with cruel slowness, watching with yearning gaze
for the first glimmer of morning.
Victor Carrington contemplated that statuesque figure, that pale and
tranquil face, with unalloyed admiration. Until to-night he had
despised women as frail, helpless creatures, only made to be flattered
by false words, and tyrannized over by stronger natures than their own.
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