“Your object was obvious to the dullest comprehension; it forms one of the strongest points in the evidence against you,” said the implacable doctor.
“My object, then, what was it? You, who charge me with the crime, declare the object!” exclaimed Eudora, rivetting upon his face her blazing eyes, through which her rising and indignant soul flashed repudiation at so vile a charge.
“Your object, girl, was the inheritance of their estates. Lord and Lady Leaton and their daughter being dead, you are the sole heiress of unencumbered Allworth,” replied the unflinching physician.
The fire that flashed from her eyes, the color that burned upon her cheeks, died slowly out. The pallor of unutterable horror spread like death over her face. She reeled as though she must have fallen to the floor, but recovered herself by a violent effort. Clasping her hands in the agonizing earnestness of her appeal, she exclaimed:
“Oh! does any one here believe this of me?”
Stern silence was the only reply.
“Madame Pezzilini! you have known me intimately for months—do you believe it?” she said, turning in an anguish of supplication to the Italian princess.
“Bellissima, my heart is broken—do not ask me!” said the princess, averting her face.
Eudora turned her despairing eyes to the crowd of stern, pitiless, accusing faces around her, and seeing the form of Malcolm Montrose in the background, she extended her clasped hands, in passionate prayer, towards him, and the tones of her voice arose, wild, high, and piercing in the agony of her last appeal, as she cried:
“Mr. Montrose! oh, Mr. Montrose! you do not believe me to be such a fiend?”