"It is hopeless!" said he, in answer to Aubrey’s frantic questions; "no skill on earth could counteract a poison so deadly, and taken, too, in such quantity."
Gradually the convulsions became less violent, and De Vere bore her in his arms to a sofa by the open window. The cool air seemed to soothe her, and she lay for a few moments perfectly passive: the work of years had been wrought upon her sunk and ghastly features. Slowly she raised her head, and put back the thick tresses that pressed upon her brow; she drank the wine the doctor offered, and her recollection returned.
"Aubrey," whispered she, and suffered her head to rest upon his bosom, "my own, my only love, forgive me,"—but her voice failed as she spoke: again a frightful change passed over her face—De Vere held a corse in his arms.
