Neither
the lover of amorous adventure, nor the admirer of witty
dialogue, should dive into these pages. Room for the
exercise of the invention might, it is true, be found;
but ours is a tale of sad reality, and our heroes and
heroines figure under circumstances that would render
wit a satire upon the understanding, and love a reflection
upon the heart. Within the bounds of probability have
we, therefore, confined ourselves.
What the feelings of the young Baronet must have been,
from the first moment when he received from the hands of
the unfortunate Captain Baynton (who, although an officer
of his own corps, was personally a stranger to him,) that
cherished sister of his friend, on whose ideal form his
excited imagination had so often latterly loved to linger,
up to the present hour, we should vainly attempt to paint.
There are emotions of the heart, it would be mockery in
the pen to trace. From the instant of his first contributing
to preserve her life, on that dreadful day of blood, to
that when the schooner fell into the hands of the savages,
few words had passed between them, and these had reference
merely to the position in which they found themselves,
and whenever Sir Everard felt he could, without indelicacy
or intrusion, render himself in the slightest way
serviceable to her.
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