"I have been assaulted by a mob of savage Mænads," Flora answered, with a bitter smile, but with all her old scorn and proud indifference of manner. "The wretches meant mischief; my life was in danger, and this poor creature"—she pointed to Henriette—"has had a hemorrhage from terror and agitation."
He only glanced towards her—she was there, safe and uninjured—as he immediately took Henriette from Kitty’s arms. "You have exerted a superhuman amount of strength," he said, scanning her face and figure anxiously. A nervous tremor possessed her frame, she bit her lip convulsively, and her cheeks glowed as if the heated blood would burst through the delicate skin. And beside her stood Flora, now cool and quiet, her cheeks flushed, to be sure, but only with the memory of what had occurred.
"You should not have allowed your sister to bear this burden alone," the doctor said to her as he carefully carried the still unconscious Henriette towards the house.
"How can you say so, Bruck!" she exclaimed, with an injured air. "Such a reproach from you is very unjust," she added, sharply. "I know my duty, and would have been only too glad to carry Henriette; but I felt it would be madness to attempt it with my delicate physical organization, while Kitty’s is one of those sound, robust, Valkyria natures to whom such a task is a trifle."
He answered not a word, but called to his aunt, who was hastening towards him, to prepare a bed immediately. She hurried back into the house, and when her nephew ascended thee steps to the hall, she was standing at the open door of a western room, into which, mutely and with an anxious face, she motioned him to enter.
It was her guest-chamber,—a tolerably large, sunny room,—the bare floor worn but white, the walls, once painted pink, much defaced, and a monster of a stove of black tiles. The gay chintz curtains before the two windows were perhaps the only luxury that the dean’s widow had allowed herself in her new home. At the head of the bed stood an ancient screen covered with Chinese figures, and upon the walls there hung in black frames some illustrations, not very artistic, to be sure, of "Louise," a charming idyl by Vosz. The air of the chamber was deliciously fresh and filled with the fragrance of lavender.