CHAPTER XIII.
The Sunday following was anything but a day of repose for Annie--she
looked with such frightful anticipation to the coming Monday. Nor was
the assurance with which Alec Forbes had sent her away, and which she
was far from forgetting, by any means productive of unmingled
consolation; for, in a conflict with such a power of darkness as Mr
Malison, how could Alec, even if sure to be victorious as any knight of
old story, come off without injury terrible and not to be contemplated!
Yet, strange to tell--or was it really strange?--as she listened to the
evening sermon, a sermon quietly and gently enforcing the fate of the
ungodly, it was not with exultation at the tardy justice that would
overtake such men as Murdock Malison or Robert Bruce, nor yet with pity
for their fate, that she listened; but with anxious heart-aching fear
for her friend, the noble, the generous Alec Forbes, who withstood
authority, and was therefore in danger of hell-fire. About her own
doom, speculation was uninteresting.
The awful morning dawned. When she woke, and the thought of what she
had to meet came back on her, though it could hardly be said to have
been a moment absent all night long, she turned, not metaphorically,
but physically sick.
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