" Sir Rowland looked at her for a moment, as if he meditated some terrible reply. ‘It is in no way your affair, monsieur, and you will unhand me at once. I won’t try. You should have more. He felt that he might soon be separated—perhaps, for ever—from the fond little creature he held in his arms, whom he had always regarded with the warmest fraternal affection, and the thought of how much she would suffer from the separation so sensibly affected him, that he could not help joining in her grief. “Let me help you,” he begged. He picked up the broken fiddle and beckoned.
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