He felt that he might soon be separated—perhaps, for ever—from the fond little creature he held in his arms, whom he had always regarded with the warmest fraternal affection, and the thought of how much she would suffer from the separation so sensibly affected him, that he could not help joining in her grief. Maybe the girl was telling the truth, and then again, maybe she wasn't. Who but you would have dreamed of giving the boy such a name? Why, it's the name of a river, not a Christian. “Now listen. “Well, I do. \" She cooed into his ear, stroking his chest hair. Perhaps these few words were the first real conscious words he had uttered in days. The sharp point of the sword at the girl’s throat bit sideways. Her eyes were perhaps a little brighter than usual, the firelight played about her hair, there seemed to him to be a sudden softening of the straight firm mouth.
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