She looked at him with a wild, incredulous gaze.
“The state of the mind depends so much upon the condition of the body, that I must bring your excited nervous system into some quietude before I can hope that you will listen to me with benefit,” said the doctor, opening a small box and taking from it a minute lozenge, which he directed her to swallow.
Eudora obeyed, and the doctor sat watching the effect of the drug.
In a few moments the morphia had done its benign work, and soothed the agonized nervousness of the victim down to a state of serene repose, in which she could calmly contemplate her coming doom.
“You feel better now, my child,” said Dr. Moss.
“Yes,” she replied.
“And you can bear to speak of your position?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Then, Eudora, I wish you to open your heart to me as to an old and experienced friend, who sympathizes with every phase of your sufferings, and can ameliorate them all. Tell me, now, what it was that filled your mind with such fear and horror as to overthrow your fortitude so completely. It was not fear of death I know; for even children meet death unblenchingly. What was it then? It will do you good to confess to me.”
“You judge me rightly,” said Eudora, as, calmed by the morphia, she now entered with perfect self-possession upon the dreaded subject. “It was not fear of death, for I should be happy if I could die quietly here in my bed. It was the manner of the death, the deep dishonor, and the mysterious, unknown, awful agony of that blindfolded, suffocating, helpless struggle with a violent death!”