He saw her as a dove struggling in cruel hands; and the pity which, had there been chance or hope, or any to smite, would have been rage, could find no other outlet.

He wept like a woman; but it was for her.
And she, who had descended unheard, and stood even now at the door, with a something almost divine in her face--a something that was neither love nor compassion, maid's fancy nor mother's care, but a mingling of all these, saw.

And her heart bled for him; her arms in fancy went round him, in fancy his head was on her breast, she comforted him.

She, who a moment before had almost sunk down on the stairs, worn out by her sufferings and the strain of hiding them from her mother's eyes, forgot her weakness in thought for him.
She had no contempt for his tears.

She had seen him stand between herself and her tormentors, she had seen the flash of his eye, heard his voice, knew him brave.