CHAPTER XVHI.
MARK WYLDEr's SLAVE.
Nearly two hours had passed before they returned.
As they did so, Rachel Lake went swiftly and silently
before her brother. The moon had gone down, and the
glen was darker than ever. Noiselessly they re-entered
the little hall of Redman's Farm. The candles were still
burning in the sitting-room, and the light was dazzling
after the profound darkness in which they had been for so
long.
Rachel sat down. No living woman ever showed a paler
face, and she stared with a look that was sharp and stern
upon the wainscot before her.
For some minutes they were silent; and suddenly, with
an exceeding bitter cry, she stood up, close to him, seizing
him in her tiny hands by the collar, and with wild eyes
gazing into his, she said —
"See what you've brought me to — wretch, wretch,
wretch!"
And she shook him with violence as she spoke. It was
wonderful how that fair young face could look so terrible.
"There, Radie, there," said Lake, disengaging her
fingers. "You're a little hysterical, that's all. It will
be over in a minute; but don't make a row. You're a
good girl, Radie. For Heaven's sake, don't spoil all by
folly now."
He was overawed and deprecatory.
"A slave; only think — a slave! Oh frightful, fright-