--What
was that hanging from the bedpost and meeting the arm? God in
heaven! there was a staple in the post, and from the staple came a
chain!--and there at its other end a ring, lying on the pillow!--and
through it--yes through it, the dust-arm passed!--This was no mere
death-bed; it was a torture bed--most likely a murder-bed; and on it
yet lay the body that died on it--had lain for hundreds of years,
unlifted for kindly burial: the place of its decease had been made
its tomb--closed up and hidden away!
A bed in a chapel, and one dead thereon!--how could it be? Had the
woman--for Donal imagined the form yet showed it the body of a
woman--been carried thither of her own desire, to die in a holy
place? That could not be: there was the chain! Had she sought refuge
there from some persecutor? If so, he has found her! She was a
captive--mad perhaps, more likely hated and the victim of a terrible
revenge; left, probably enough, to die of hunger, or
disease--neglected or tended, who could tell? One thing, only was
clear--that there she died, and there she was buried!
Arctura was trembling. Donal drew her closer, and would have taken
her away. But she said in his ear, as if in dread of disturbing the
dust,
"I am not frightened--not very. It is only the cold, I think."
They went softly to the other end of the chapel, almost clinging
together as they went.
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