the sufferer sleeping. It seemed not,
indeed, so much a sleep, as a lethargy, that
weighed on her eyelids, surrounded by a
livid violet circle that made the pallor of
her cheeks and brow startling.

"Has any news been heard of the man—
the Prince Cesare?" asked the London
physician in a low voice of Mr. Plew. The
former had not passed the whole night
by Veronica's couch, as her old friend had
done. He had contented himself with
sending a nurse, and promising to come
again in the early morning. This promise
he had kept. Mr. Plew shook his head in
answer to the physician's question.

"I hope they'll catch the villain," said
the physician.

Mr. Plew at that moment had no thought
or care for Cesare's punishment. His whole
soul seemed to hang upon the prostrate
form from which the life was ebbing with
every breath.

"The magistrate will be here by-and-bye,"
said the doctor.

"She must not be disturbed!" said Mr.
Plew. "She must not be tortured."

The physician slightly shrugged his
shoulders, and looked at the sleeper with a
cool compassion in his face. "They must
not delay very long, if they want to see her
alive. The end is near," said he.

Mr. Plew remained perfectly still, watching
her face, from which he did not withdraw
his eyes for a moment, even in
addressing the other man. In his heart he
was praying that she might regain
consciousness and recognise him before the
end.

Half an hour passed. Then there came
a ring at the door, which sounded with
painful metallic vibrations through the
hushed house.

"I will go down and see them," said the
physician, divining who the early visitors
must be: and not sorry to leave a scene in
which he could be of no use.

"She must not be disturbed," said Mr.
Plew, still without moving or changing the
fixed direction of his glance. The other
nodded, and noiselessly left the room. The
hired nurse sat with closed eyes in a chair
in a distant corner of the room. She was
not fully asleep. But she took a measure
of repose, in the half-waking fashion
rendered familiar by her avocations. There
was a muffled sound of feet below; the
closing of a door—then all was still.

Suddenly the surgeon's gaze, instead of
looking on closed, violet-tinted eyelids,
with their heavy black fringe, met a pair
of wide-open haggard eyes, that looked
strange, but not wild: there was speculation
in them.

"Mr. Plew!"

The whispered sound of his own uncouth
name was like music in his ears. All the
night she had been calling on Cesare,
begging him to save her from that other;
imploring him to give her a drink of water;
appointing an hour for him to meet her in
the Villa Reale; always associating him
with some terror or trouble. She had
spoken in Italian. But her husband's name,
and one or two other words, had sufficed
to give the watcher an idea of the images
that filled her poor fevered brain.

"My dearest," he answered.

She feebly moved her hand, and he took
it in his own. She closed her eyes for a
moment, as though to signify that that was
what she had desired him to do.

Then she opened her eyes again, and
looking at him with a terrible, wide stare,
whispered, "Shall I die?"

His heart was wrung with a bitter agony
as he saw her plaintive pleading face, full
of the vague terror of a frightened child.
He pressed her hand gently, and stroked
the matted hair from her forehead. He
tried to speak comfort to her. But it was
in vain. He could not tell her a lie.

"Don't let me die! I am very young.
Can't I get better? Oh, can't I get better?
I am so afraid! Keep me with you. Hold
my hand. Don't let me die!"

"Veronica! My only love! Be calm!
Have pity on me."

"Oh, but I am afraid, it is so dreadful
to—to—die!"

She hid her face against his hand, and
moaned and murmured incoherently.

"Our Father have mercy upon her!"
sobbed the surgeon. Even as he sobbed,
he was careful to suppress the convulsive
heaving of his chest as far as it was in his
power to command it, lest it should shake
the hand she clung to.

Again she moved her head enough to
enable her to look up at him. "You are
good," she said. "You can pray. God
will hear you. Will he?—will he hear
you? Oh yes, yes, you and Maud. You
and Maud—you and—— Do you see that
tombstone in St. Gildas's grave-yard? I
dreamt once that I was going to marry
you, and he started out from behind the
tombstone to prevent it. That was a
dream. But the tombstone is there: white,
all white on the turf. Don't you see it?"

"Veronica! Do you hear me?"

"Yes: Mr. Plew. Poor Mr. Plew. He
loved me. Was it you?"