Cruel As The Grave

But there seemed no resting place for the weary travellers, until Sybil,

with a serious smile, went up to the altar and sank upon the lowest

step, and beckoned Lyon to join her, saying: "At the foot of the altar, dear Lyon, there was sanctuary in the olden

times. We seem to realize the idea now."

"You are cold. Your clothes are all damp. Stop! I must try to raise a

fire. But you, in the meantime, must walk briskly up and down, to keep

from being chilled to death," answered Lyon Berners very practically, as

he proceeded to gather dry leaves and twigs that had drifted into the

interior of the old church.

He piled them up in the centre of the floor, just under the break in

the roof, and then he went out and gathered sticks and brushwood, and

built up a little mound. Lastly he took a box of matches from his pocket

and struck a light, and kindled the fire.

The dried leaves and twigs crackled and blazed, and the smoke ascended

in a straight column to the hole in the roof through which it escaped.

"Come, dear Sybil, and walk around the fire until your clothes are dry,

and then sit down by it. This fire, with its smoke ascending and

escaping through that aperture, is just such a fire as our forefathers

in the old, old times enjoyed, as the best thing of the kind they knew

anything about. Kings had no better," said Lyon Berners, cheerfully.

Sybil approached the fire, but instead of walking around it, she sat

down on the flagstones before it. She looked very weary, thoroughly

prostrated in body, soul, and spirit.

"What are we waiting for, in this horrible pause?" she inquired at

length.

"We are waiting for Pendleton. He is to bring us news, as soon as he can

slip away and steal to us without fear of detection," answered Lyon

Berners.

"Oh, Heaven! what words have crept into our conversation about ourselves

and friends too! 'Steal,' 'fear,' 'detection!' Oh, Lyon!--But there, I

will say no more. I will not revert to the horror and degradation of

this position again, if I can help it," groaned Sybil.

"My wife, you are very faint. Try to take some nourishment," urged Lyon,

as he began to open the small parcel of refreshments thoughtfully

provided by Captain Pendleton.

"No, no, I cannot swallow a morsel. My throat is parched and

constricted," she answered.

"If I only had a little coffee for you," said Lyon.

"If we only had liberty to go home again," sighed Sybil, "then we

should have all things. But there; indeed I will not backslide into weak

complaints again," she added, compunctuously.

"Modify your grief, dear Sybil, but do not attempt entirely to suppress

it. Nature is not to be so restrained," said Lyon Berners, kindly.