The Child of Waterloo, or, The Horrors of the Battle-Field — page 158: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE CHILD OF WATERLOO. 155 It seemed a dream: the whole of the occurrence a dream of the most bigeous aspect that ever crept over the waiting senses of human being; a dream that made the blood run cold, and the flesh creep into knots. No, no; hideous and horrible as it was, yet it was real; there was nothing but what was plain matter of fact. She listened with breathless attention to ascertain if that fearful man should return to place a bar between her and hope and liberty. No, she heard no one, no sound—no footsteps reached her ear. She was free! She went into the room again, and sought for the bed upon which lay the only things she had in the way of covering for protecting herself in the open air. It was merely what she had wrapped herself up in when she had left Morton Hall. So pro- tected she came to the door of that room where she had seen so much crime committed. Here she paused. Her heart beat violently. Could she cross that room, and in all probability come iri contact with that dread- ful corpse, al] besmeared with blood? It made her tremble to think of it. She stepped slowly and cautiously along the room, but had scarcely got half way across when‘she felt her foot slip along the floor a short way. A suppressed scream of tetror came to her lips, and died away before she gave utterance to it; for she knew she had stepped into the pool of blood—so cold, so slimy, that a chill of horror crept through her frame. Great as was her terror, she could scarcely move to escape the clotted gore that lay on the dappled boards; but, by a sudden impulse, she made a violent effort, and rushed into the passage, where the cold air that came in at the door somewhat recovered her. She paused, and leaned her head on her hand, as she supported her- self against the cold wall. The sound of some distant passen- gers, however, recalled her to herself, and she crept cautiously to the door. ‘‘Thank Heaven, J am free.” she exclaimed, in a half-audible voice; ‘‘I am free once more.” Poor Mabel, she burried on from the vicinity of the house in which she had seen enough of crime and horror to appal the stoutest heart. She never heeded where she was going; she only thought of getting away from that place of horrors. What she was to do, or where she was to go for shelter, she knew not; but unable to devise any scheme, she kept walking on until she felt fit to drop on the earth. There were no places open but a few late houses, and into these she could not venture to go. She crossed the road and ran up a short street, and crossed the road into another. She was soon lost to herself, and she could not tell where she was, nor how far ehe might be from those who had persecuted her. It was very late, in fact, near morning, when she escaped from the house; and after an hour or two's walk, she found her- self, after sunrise, in the neighborhood of London, in the out- skirts. How she came there she knew not, but she was very fatigued and cold. Not knowing where to go, she sat down in a door comicbooks. com