But, if they all deemed me dead,--as by this time I feared they must, though, indeed, they had refused to do so before,--my time might already be past, and that which I cherished as hope might be even now but dead ashes.
At times I wondered if Jean Le Marchant had not had his suspicions of Torode's treacheries, and how he would regard the young Torode as suitor for Carette in that case.

I was sure in my own mind that her father and brothers would never yield her to anything but what they deemed the best for her.

But their ideas on that head might differ widely from my own, and I drew small comfort from the thought.
And Carette herself?
I hugged to myself the remembrance of her last farewell.

I lived on it.

It might mean nothing more than the memory of our old friendship.