The opening of the cell’s dark door,—
Bright eyes—a word, and nothing more.
Quickly she gazed around,
Then, passionate, flung her hands on high,
And with a sharp, wild, rapturous cry,
Fell swooning to the ground.—Michell.
Eudora slept long and calmly, and awoke early on Tuesday morning, the last day of her allotted life. Thanks to the good physician’s merciful ministrations, the frenzy of terror and the darkness of despair had alike vanished. Her nerves were wonderfully composed, and her mind perfectly clear.
“It is strange, Mrs. Barton,” she said, as the wardress was assisting her to dress, “how well I am this morning, the very last day of my life. It seems to me, looking back on my past feelings, as if I had been very ill ever since my first arrest, and have only now recovered health and reason. And this is my last day, and I have made no preparations for death; but indeed I could not, and I see clearly now why I could not. First came the thunderbolt of my arrest; then the anguish of suspense before the trial; then the blackness of despair after conviction; and then the frenzy of terror that followed the reading of the death-warrant! What could I do amidst all that various suffering? But it has all gone, now; the suspense, the despair, and the terror have all taken flight, like evil spirits, and left my mind in a sweet, clear, sunny, almost buoyant state, although I am to die to-morrow morning. I hope this is not unnatural; I hope I am in my senses; for it is a very strange experience.”
“It is the goodness of God, and the skill of the doctor as His instrument, my poor, dear child. You are innocent and martyred, and so you are comforted by Heaven and earth,” answered the wardress.
“I am not afraid to meet my Maker. I never was, even in the midst of my worst terrors. I have not got my peace to make with Heaven at this late hour, but I have much to do for those whom I shall leave behind, and I must set about it immediately.”