His features were nobly formed.
His eye, large and bright, of the purest grey; the lashes, like a cloud,
covering and tempering their lustre. A touch of sadness rested on his
lips. They seemed to speak of suffering and endurance, as if the soul's
deepest agony would not have cast a word across their barriers.
Constance for a moment raised her eyes, but they were suddenly
withdrawn, overflowing with some powerful emotion. He still gazed, but
one proud effort broke the fixed intensity of his glance, and his tongue
resumed its office.
"Maiden, I am pursued. The foe are on my track. My retreat is
discovered, and unless thou wilt vouchsafe to me a hiding-place, I am in
their power. The Earl of Tyrone--nay, I scorn the title--'tis the King
of Ulster that stands before thee. I would not crouch thus for my own
life, were it not for my country. Her stay, her sustenance, is in thy
keeping."
Never did wretchedness and misfortune sue in vain to woman's ear.
Constance forgot her weakness and timidity. She saw not her own danger.
A fellow-being craved help and succour; all other feelings gave place,
and she seemed animated with a new impulse.
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