More than two hours passed in this silent, dreary misery, and still Malcolm did not appear. And now every passing minute seemed to tread with a leaden foot upon the sinking heart of Annella, that every moment grew heavier, more fearful, and more impatient.
“Oh, I cannot stand this! I shall lose my breath presently!” she inwardly exclaimed, feeling the protracted suspense grow almost suffocating.
At length footsteps were heard approaching, the cell door was unlocked, and Malcolm Montrose was ushered in by the turnkey, who, as usual, retired.
Annella bounded forward to meet him, and raised her eyes, dilated and blazing with burning anxiety, to his face.
She read there the death-warrant of Eudora Leaton.
“He has failed!” she said to herself, as she sank, shuddering into the nearest seat, where she sat during the remainder of the interview, like one spell-bound in some awful trance, with her elbow resting on the little table, her chin leaning on the palm of her hand, her face white as death, her lips compressed, her eyes contracted, glittering, and fixed apparently upon some far-distant, visionary, fearful scene in which, perhaps, she saw herself the principal actor.
Malcolm, meanwhile, passed her quickly, and sank upon his knees beside the bed, and took Eudora’s pale hand, inquiring, in a low tone of reverential tenderness:
“How is my dearest Eudora, now?”
“Almost resigned, Malcolm, if I could only suffer alone!—thinking less of my own fate than of your sorrow when all shall be over with me,” replied Eudora, opening her eyes, and fixing them upon his face with an expression of tender pity.
He could not bear the look of those sweet eyes. He bowed his head upon her hands, and it required all his strength to keep the swelling agony of his bosom from bursting forth in sobs.