It was now, however, once more
rekindled, and with a throbbing mixture of hope, awe, and anxiety,
Waverley watched the group before him, as those who were just arrived
snatched a hasty meal, and the others assumed their arms and made brief
preparations for their departure.
As he sat in the smoky hut, at some distance from the fire, around which
the others were crowded, he felt a gentle pressure upon his arm. He
looked round; it was Alice, the daughter of Donald Bean Lean. She showed
him a packet of papers in such a manner that the motion was remarked by
no one else, put her finger for a second to her lips, and passed on, as
if to assist old Janet in packing Waverley's clothes in his portmanteau.
It was obviously her wish that he should not seem to recognise her, yet
she repeatedly looked back at him, as an opportunity occurred of doing so
unobserved, and when she saw that he remarked what she did, she folded
the packet with great address and speed in one of his shirts, which she
deposited in the portmanteau.
Here then was fresh food for conjecture. Was Alice his unknown warden,
and was this maiden of the cavern the tutelar genius that watched his bed
during his sickness? Was he in the hands of her father? and if so, what
was his purpose? Spoil, his usual object, seemed in this case neglected;
for not only Waverley's property was restored, but his purse, which might
have tempted this professional plunderer, had been all along suffered to
remain in his possession.
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