"Nor shall I abandon him to your tender mercies," replied Tamar,
"whilst he is in this condition. I am not his daughter, it is true,--but
he is a feeble old man, and I will befriend him if I can."
The old gentleman at this moment fell forward with such weight, that
Tamar ran from behind him, and dropping down on her knees, received his
head on her shoulder, then, putting one arm round him, she was glad to
hear a long, deep sigh, the prelude of his returning to partial
consciousness; and as he opened his eyes, he said,--"Ah, Rachel, is it
you? You have been gone a long time."
Tamar was at that moment alone with the old man. Rebecca had heard
voices at a distance, and she had run to pull up the bridge.
"I am not your Rachel, venerable Sir," she said; "but the adopted
daughter of the Laird of Dymock," and she gently laid his head back.
"Then why do you come to me like her?" said the old man. "That is
wrong, it is very cruel; it is tormenting me before my time. I have not
hurt you, and I will give you more gold if you will not do this again."
"You rave, Sir," said Tamar. "Who do you take me for?"
"A dream," he answered. "I have been dreaming again;" and he raised
himself, shook his head, rubbed his hands across his eyes, and looked as
usual; but before he could add another word, Dymock and Shanty entered
the parlour.
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