Her sweet face had
haunted him while a slave on the British war-ship. In the camp, or on
the battle field, she was ever near him. A thousand times he had said
to himself:
"Oh, why can I not forget her? Morgianna is nothing to me. No doubt,
long ere this she has married Lieutenant Matson and is happy. May God
bless her in her happiness, and may Heaven spare her husband."
It never once entered his mind that she could possibly care for him. She
had been so cool, so careless, and seemed so unconcerned on the night of
their parting, that he thought she must be glad that he was away and had
ceased to annoy her.
Yet her face, as he remembered it that night, lying gazing into the
fire, half asleep and half awake, was lovely, and she was blameless. To
him, she was a goddess to be worshipped, one incapable of wrong. If she
had rejected him, it was right. If she had loved the lieutenant, it was
perfectly right; yet he could not crush her image out of his heart. It
was indelibly stamped there, and had become a part of his existence.
The bleak northeast wind swept through the woods and howled about the
rude shanty, rattling the boards and causing the sentries to shiver, as
they drew their cloaks about their shoulders. Fernando felt almost
comfortable in this retreat, and the fire burned low, still giving out a
generous heat.
Two officers from another company came to their quarters, and the last
Fernando remembered was hearing them talking of the disposition of the
troops and the probability of meeting the enemy and sharing the glory
which Lewis and Allen had won but three days before.
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