whom he had been the
cherished love. His firm, manly bearing won the esteem of all those who,
nevertheless, at the same moment, had few if any doubts of the justice
of his doom.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

PRAYERS AND PROMISES.

Ralph Colleton was once more in his dungeon--alone and without hope. For
a moment during the progress of his trial, and at the appearance of
Lucy, he deemed it possible that some providential fortune might work a
change in the aspect of things, favorable to his escape from what, to
his mind, was far worse than any thought of death, in the manner of his
death. But when, after a moment of reflection, he perceived that the
feminine delicacy of the maiden must suffer from any further testimony
from her lips--when he saw that, most probably, in the minds of all who
heard her narration, the circumstance of her appearance in his chamber
and at such an hour of the night, and for any object, would be fatal to
her reputation--when he perceived this consciousness, too, weighing down
even to agony the soul of the still courageous witness--the high sense
of honor which had always prompted him, not less than that chivalrous
consideration of the sex taught in the south among the earliest lessons
of society to its youth--compelled him to interpose, and prevent, if
possible, all further utterance, which, though possibly all-important to
him, would be fatally destructive to her.

He did so at his own self-sacrifice! We have seen how the poor girl was
silenced. The result was, that Ralph Colleton was again in his
dungeon--hope shut out from its walls, and a fearful death and ignominy
written upon them. When the officers attending him had retired--when he
heard the bolt shot, and saw that the eyes of curiosity were
excluded--the firm spirit fled which had supported him. There was a
passing weakness of heart which overcame its energies and resolve, and
he sunk down upon the single chair allotted to his prison. He buried his
face in his hands, and the warm tears gushed freely through his fingers.
While thus weeping, like a very child, he heard the approach of
footsteps without. In a moment he recovered all his manliness and calm.
The traces of his weakness were sedulously brushed from his cheeks, and
the handkerchief employed for the purpose studiously put out of sight.
He was not ashamed of the pang, but he was not willing that other eyes
should behold it. Such was the nature of his pride--the pride of
strength,