bin thought his eye glared wildly as he
spoke.

"Where--where is she?" muttered Robin, leaning for support against a
projecting stone, that served as one of the slides for the rough, but
skilfully-managed doorway--his heart panting with anxiety to behold, and
yet dreading to look upon the form of the dead Barbara. The Buccaneer
pointed to where the skins had hung when Fleetword was in the chamber,
and the Ranger attempted to move towards it; but his feet were as if
rooted to the earth. Dalton watched his agitation with a curious eye;
yet Robin perceived it not. He made several ineffectual attempts to stir
from his position; but continued fixed in the same spot, unable to
withdraw his gaze from the opening. At length the blood circulated more
freely in his veins, his chest heaved, as if the exertion of breathing
was an effort he could not long continue; and he staggered, as a
drunken man, towards the entrance. The uncertainty of his step was such
that he would have fallen into the chamber, had not the Buccaneer seized
him within his powerful grasp, on the threshold of the inner chamber,
and silently directed his attention towards a pile of cushions, covered
with a variety of coloured silks and furs, on which lay a form he could
not mistake. The hair, divested of its usual cap, rested in shadowy
masses on the throat and bosom, and the light of the small lamp fell
upon a cheek and brow white as monumental marble. By the side of this
rude, yet luxurious couch, crouched another female, holding a fan, or
rather a mass of superb ostrich feathers, which she moved slowly to and
fro, so as to create a current of air within the cell. It contained one
other inmate--the little and ugly Crisp--lying, coiled up, at the foot
of the cushions, his nose resting between his small, rough paws; his
eyes fixed upon his master, to hail whom he sprang not forward, as was
his custom, with a right joyful and doggish salutation, but, mutely and
quietly, wagged his dwarfish tail--so gently, that it would not have
brushed off the down from a butterfly's wing.

Robin grasped his hands convulsively together--shook back the hair that
curled over his forehead, as if it prevented his seeing clearly--his
breathing became still more painfully distinct--large drops of moisture
burst upon his brow--his tongue moved, but he could utter no sound--his
under lip worked in fearful convulsion--and, despite Dalton's efforts to
restrain him, he sprang to the side o