That cry, faint as it was, attracted Goisvintha's attention. She turned
in an instant, thrust Hermanric aside, and raised the stranger in her
arms. The light, slender form, the fair hand and arm hanging motionless
towards the ground, the long locks of deep black hair, heavy with the
moisture of the night atmosphere, betrayed the wanderer's sex and age in
an instant. The solitary fugitive was a young girl.
Signing to Hermanric to kindle the extinguished torch at a neighbouring
watch-fire, Goisvintha carried the still insensible girl into the tent.
As the Goth silently proceeded to obey her, a vague, horrid suspicion,
that he shrunk from embodying, passed across his mind. His hand shook
so that he could hardly light the torch, and bold and vigorous as he
was, his limbs trembled beneath him as he slowly returned to the tent.
When he had gained the interior of his temporary abode, the light of his
torch illuminated a strange and impressive scene.
Goisvintha was seated on a rude oaken chest, supporting on her knees the
form of the young girl, and gazing with an expression of the most
intense and enthralling interest upon her pale, wasted countenance.
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