They were the Princess Pezzilini, Eudora Leaton, and her ladyship’s maid.
Especially he fastened his eyes upon Eudora, who knelt on the opposite side of the bed, with her face buried in the bed-clothes, in an attitude of deep grief.
“Can any one here inform me whether Lady Leaton drank of the tamarind-water which stood upon the mantleshelf of Miss Leaton’s chamber?” inquired the doctor, looking sternly around him.
“Yes, sir,” answered the lady’s-maid, looking up through her tears; “when my lady was so agitated by seeing the condition of Miss Leaton as to be near swooning, and I was obliged to support her in my arms, I called for a glass of water, and Miss Eudora quickly poured out a tumbler of tamarind-water, saying there was no other at hand, and held it to her ladyship’s lips.”
“And her ladyship drank it?”
“Yes, sir; she eagerly drank off the whole glassful, for she was so anxious to keep up for Miss Leaton’s sake, not believing that she was past all help,” replied the woman.
“That will do,” said the doctor, once bending his eyes sternly upon the kneeling form of Eudora.
But the girl, unconscious of the storm that was gathering over her head, remained absorbed in grief.
“Madame,” said the doctor, turning, to the princess, “your friend has joined her daughter. There is now no lady at the head of this afflicted house. I must, therefore, entreat you for charity to assume some necessary authority here over these dismayed female domestics; at least, until some measures can be taken for the regulation of the establishment.”
The Italian princess lifted her fine face, in which grief seemed to struggle with the habitual composure of pride, and gracefully indicating Eudora by a small wave of her arm, she said: