knees trembled, and her cheeks grew pale. She seized with an unsteady hand the precious manuscript—for half a glance sufficed to ascertain written characters—and, while she acknowledged with awful sensations this striking exemplification of what Henry had foretold, resolved instantly to peruse every line before she attempted to rest.
"The dimness of the light her candle emitted made her turn to it with alarm; but there was no danger of its sudden extinction; it had yet some hours to burn, and, that she might not have any greater difficulty in distinguishing the writing than what its ancient date might occasion, she hastily snuffed it. Alas! it was snuffed and extinguished in one. A lamp could not have expired with more awful effect. Catherine for a few moments was motionless with horror. . . . In the pause which succeeded, a sound like receding footsteps and the closing of a distant door struck on her affrighted ear. A cold sweat stood on her forehead, the manuscript fell from her hand, and groping her way to the bed she jumped hastily in, and sought some suspension of agony by creeping far underneath the clothes. Hour after hour passed away, and the wearied Catherine had heard three proclaimed by all the clocks in the house before the tempest subsided, or she unknowingly fell asleep."
When daylight brought returning courage and cheerfulness, her first thought was for the manuscript, "and springing from her bed in the very moment of the maid's going away, she eagerly collected every scattered sheet which had burst from the roll on its falling to the ground, and flew back to enjoy the luxury of their perusal on her pillow. She now plainly saw that she must not expect a manuscript of equal
