aring at his
friend, in profound silence, without picking up the hat, which had
fallen to the ground, when Pepusch advanced a few steps towards him,
and murmured in a hollow voice, "shoot!"--Peregrine fired his pistol in
the air.

With the voice and gestures of a madman, Pepusch now flung himself upon
his friend's breast, and cried out, in heart-rending tones,--"She is
dying! dying for you, unlucky one! Quick!--save her! You can do
it--save her for yourself, and let me perish in my despair!"

Pepusch ran off so fast that Peregrine had lost sight of him on the
instant; and now a fearful foreboding came over him, that his friend's
mad behaviour must have been occasioned by something terrible which had
happened to the little-one: whereupon he hastened back to the city.

On entering his house, he was met by the old woman, loudly lamenting
that the poor princess was on the sudden taken violently ill, and was
dying. Mr. Swammer himself had gone after the most celebrated physician
in Frankfort.

With the feelings of death at his heart, he crept into Mr. Swammer's
room that was opened to him by the old woman. There lay the little-one
upon a sofa, pale and stiff like a corse; and it was not till he knelt
down and bent over her that he perceived her gentle breathing. No
sooner had he touched her icy hand, than a painful smile played about
her lips, and she lisped,--

"Is it you, my sweet friend? Have you come to see her once again, who
loves you so unspeakably,--who dies, alas! because she cannot breathe
without you?"

Dissolving in sorrow, Peregrine poured himself forth in protestations
of the tenderest love, and repeated, that nothing in the world was so
dear to him that he would not sacrifice it to her. Out of words grew
kisses, but in these kisses again words, like the breathings of love,
were distinguishable.

"You know, my Peregrine, how much I love you. I can be yours; you,
mine,--I can recover on the spot--you will see me bloom again in my
youthful splendour, like a flower refreshed by the morning dew, and
joyfully lifting up his drooping head--but--give me up the prisoner, my
dear, beloved Peregrine, or else you will see me perish, before your
eyes, in unutterable death-pangs.----Peregrine--I can no more--it is
all over!"

With this she sank back upon the cushions, from which she had half
raised herself; her bosom heaved tumultuously up and down, as if, in
the death-pangs; her lips grew bluer, and her eyes see