Yet it must be confessed that, though the bravest
of men, his courage faltered as he entered the accustomed ravine. He
stopped and looked down on the precipice below; he felt it utterly
impossible to meet them; his mind nearly deserted him. Death, some
great and universal catastrophe, an earthquake, a deluge, that would
have buried them all in an instant and a common fate, would have been
hailed by George Cadurcis, at that moment, as good fortune.
He lurked about the ravine for nearly three hours before he could
summon up heart for the awful interview. The position he had taken
assured him that no one could approach the villa, to which he himself
dared not advance. At length, in a paroxysm of energetic despair, he
had rushed forward, met them instantly, and confessed with a whirling
brain, and almost unconscious of his utterance, that 'they could not
hope to see them again in this world.'
What ensued must neither be attempted to be described, nor even
remembered. It was one of those tragedies of life which enfeeble the
most faithful memories at a blow shatter nerves beyond the faculty of
revival, cloud the mind for ever, or turn the hair grey in an instant.
They carried Venetia delirious to her bed. The very despair, and
almost madness, of her daughter forced Lady Annabel to self-exertion,
of which it was difficult to suppose that even she was capable.
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