lasped her in his arms and wept
over her. Then he broke away--looked on her with a shudder--

"O God!" he cried, "she is dead--she is dead!"

Maltravers started. The physician kindly approached, and, taking Lord
Saxingham's hand, led him from the room--he went mute and obedient like
a child.

But the struggle was not yet past. Florence once more opened her eyes,
and Maltravers uttered a cry of joy. But along those eyes the film was
darkening rapidly, as still through the mist and shadow they sought
the beloved countenance which hung over her, as if to breathe life into
waning life. Twice her lips moved, but her voice failed her; she shook
her head sadly.

Maltravers hastily held to her mouth a cordial which lay ready on the
table near her, but scarce had it moistened her lips, when her whole
frame grew heavier and heavier, in his clasp. Her head once more sank
upon his bosom--she thrice gasped wildly for breath--and at length,
raising her hand on high, life struggled into its expiring ray.

"_There_--above!--Ernest--that name--Ernest!"

Yes, that name was the last she uttered; she was evidently conscious of
that thought, for a smile, as her voice again faltered--a smile sweet
and serene--that smile never seen but on the faces of the dying and the
dead--borrowed from a light that is not of this world--settled slowly on
her brow, her lips, her whole countenance; still she breathed, but the
breath grew fainter! at length, without murmur, sound, or struggle, it
passed away--the head dropped from his bosom--the form fell from his
arms-all was over!

CHAPTER VIII.

* * * * "Is this the promised end?"--_Lear_.

IT was two hours after that scene before Maltravers left the house. It
was then just on the stroke of the first hour of morning. To him, while
he walked through the streets, and the sharp winds howled on his path,
it was as if a strange and wizard life had passed into and supported
him--a sort of drowsy, dull existence. He was like a sleepwalker,
unconscious of all around him; yet his steps went safe and free; and the
one thought that possessed his being--into which all intellect seemed
shrunk--the thought, not fiery nor vehement, but calm, stern, and
solemn--the thought of revenge--seemed, as it were, grown his soul
itself. He arrived at the door of Colonel Danvers, mounted the stairs,
and as his friend advanced to meet him, said calmly, "Now, then, the
hour has arrived."

"But what would you do now?