She knew no more, only that she had tried her hardest to open the door that morning, and had not succeeded. She was evidently ignorant and unconscious enough.
"Had your lady any enemy?" asked the earl.
"No," replied the maid; "I believe every one who saw her worshiped her.
"Was there any tramp or poacher to whom she had refused alms, or anything of that kind?" asked the captain.
"I should say not; my lady always had an open hand."
"She expressed no fear last evening, but seemed just as usual?" asked the earl.
"She was happier than usual, if anything, my lord," was the reply.
Then the medical details were taken down, and the body of the dead girl was raised from the ground. The doctor and the maid washed the stains from the golden hair. The housekeeper was summoned, and the two women, with bitter tears, laid the fair limbs to rest. She was so lovely, even in death! The cruel wound could not be seen. They would have arrayed her in her wedding-dress had it not been destroyed. They found a robe of plain white muslin, and put it on her: they brushed out the shining ripples of golden hair, and let it lie like a long veil around her; they crossed the perfect arms, and laid them over the quiet breast. Though she had died so terrible a death, there was no trace of pain on the beautiful face: it was calm and smiling, as though the last whisper from her lips had been anything rather than the terrible words.
"Oh, God! I am not fit to die!"—anything rather than that.
Eugenie went down into the garden and gathered fair white roses, she crowned the golden head with them; she laid them on the white breast, and over the silent figure, perfect in its pale loveliness as sculptured marble; so beautiful, so calm! Oh, cruel death, to have claimed her! Then the maid wept bitter tears over her, she could not tear herself from the room where the beautiful figure lay. Silently the earl entered, and bowed his head over the cold face, hot tears fell from his eyes upon it.