absolution?"

"Away, and do as I order you," cried Rainscourt, with violence.

"Blessed Jesus, don't talk so loud! It's the whole house will hear
you," said the hag, beseechingly, as she left the room.

She returned with the draught. Rainscourt poured in the powder, and
shook it with desperation.

"Now this is the first draught he must take; give it him directly."

"Och hone!" cried the old woman, as she received the vial in her
trembling hands.

"Go; and come back and tell me when he has taken it."

Norah left the room. Rainscourt waited her return in a state of mind so
horribly painful that large drops of perspiration poured from his
forehead. At one moment, he would have recalled her--the next beggary
stared him in the face, and his diabolical resolution was confirmed.
His agony of suspense became so intense that he could wait no longer.
He went to the door of the sick chamber, and opening it gently, looked
in.

The old woman was sitting down on the floor, crouched, with her elbows
on her knees, and her face and head covered over with her cloak. The
noise of the hinges startled her; she uncovered her head and looked up.
Rainscourt made signs to her, inquiring whether he had taken the
draught. She shook her head. He pointed his finger angrily, desiring
her to give it. The old woman sank on her knees, and held up her hands
in supplication. Rainscourt beckoned her out--she followed him to his
own room.

"Do you see these pistols?" said Rainscourt--"they are loaded.
Immediately obey my orders--promise me, on your soul that you will, or
you shall be the occasion of your master's death. Swear!" continued he,
putting one of the pistols to his ear, and his finger to the trigger.

"I will do it--on my soul I will, master dear," cried Norah. "Only put
away the pistols, and if he were thousands more beautiful, and if my
soul is to be burnt for ever, I'll do it."

Again she returned to the chamber of the victim, followed by Rainscourt,
who stood at the door to fortify her resolution.

Seymour was awoke by the old beldame--from a dream in which the form of
Emily blessed his fancy--to take the fatal draught now poured out and
presented to him. Accustomed to the febrifuge at certain hours, he
drank it off in haste, that he might renew his dreaming happiness.
"What is it? It burns my throat!" cried Seymour.

"It's not the like of what you have taken before," said the old woman,
shuddering, as she offered