She sat there, a prey to disappointed passion, silent, and watching every turn of the hapless Verezzi's countenance, as, bereft of sense, he lay extended on the bed before her.
The animation which was wont to illumine his sparkling eye was fled, the roseate colour which had tinged his cheek had given way to an ashy paleness—he was insensible to all around him. Matilda sat there the whole day, and silently administered medicines to the unconscious Verezzi, as occasion required.
Towards night the physician again came. Matida's head thoughtfully leant upon her arm as he entered the apartment.
"Ah! what hope? what hope?" wildly she exclaimed.
The physician calmed her, and bid her not despair: then, observing her pallid countenance, he said, he believed she required his skill as much as his patient.
"Oh! heed me not," she exclaimed; "but how is Verezzi? will he live or die?"
The physician advanced towards the emaciated Verezzi—he took his hand.
A burning fever raged through his veins.
"Oh, how is he?" exclaimed Matilda, as, anxiously watching the humane physician's countenance, she thought a shade of sorrow spread itself over his features—"but tell me my fate quickly," continued she: "I am prepared to hear the worst—prepared to hear that he is even dead already."
As she spoke this, a sort of desperate serenity overspread her features. She seized the physician's arm, and looked steadfastly on his countenance, and then, as if overcome by unwonted exertions, she sank fainting at his feet.
The physician raised her, and soon succeeded in recalling her fleeted faculties.
Overcome by its own violence, Matilda's despair be-
