s upon my
chest, and his blade gleamed on high in the pale light of the lamp
and moon. I thought I beheld my death: would to God that I had! With a
piercing cry, Isora sprang from the bed, flung herself before the lifted
blade of the robber, and arrested his arm. This man had, in the whole
contest, acted with a singular forbearance, he did so now: he paused for
a moment and dropped his hand. Hitherto the other man had not stirred
from his mute position; he now moved one step towards us, brandishing a
poniard like his comrade's. Isora raised her hand supplicatingly towards
him, and cried out, "Spare him, spare _him_! Oh, mercy, mercy!" With one
stride the murderer was by my side; he muttered some words which passion
seemed to render inarticulate; and, half pushing aside his comrade, his
raised weapon flashed before my eyes, now dim and reeling. I made a vain
effort to rise: the blade descended; Isora, unable to arrest it, threw
herself before it; her blood, her heart's blood gushed over me; I saw
and felt no more.

When I recovered my senses, my servants were round me; a deep red, wet
stain upon the sofa on which I was laid brought the whole scene I had
witnessed again before me--terrible and distinct. I sprang to my feet
and asked for Isora; a low murmur caught my ear: I turned and beheld a
dark form stretched on the bed, and surrounded, like myself, by gazers
and menials; I tottered towards that bed,--my bridal bed,--with a fierce
gesture motioned the crowd away; I heard my name breathed audibly;
the next moment I was by Isora's side. All pain, all weakness, all
consciousness of my wound, of my very self, were gone: life seemed
curdled into a single agonizing and fearful thought. I fixed my eyes
upon hers; and though _there_ the film was gathering dark and rapidly,
I saw, yet visible and unconquered, the deep love of that faithful and
warm heart which had lavished its life for mine.

I threw my arms around her; I pressed my lips wildly to hers.
"Speak--speak!" I cried, and my blood gushed over her with the effort;
"in mercy speak!"

Even in death and agony, the gentle being who had been as wax unto my
lightest wish struggled to obey me. "Do not grieve for me," she said,
in a tremulous and broken voice: "it is dearer to die for you than to
live!"

Those were her last words. I felt her breath abruptly cease. The heart,
pressed to mine, was still! I started up in dismay; the light shone full
upon her face. O God! tha