Three dreadful hours passed in this way, with little change.
Sophia sat near the head of the lounge, keeping constant watch over the corpse.
Little Gloria crouched on the floor at her feet, with her head hidden in the old woman’s lap.
Marcellus de Crespigney raged up and down the floor, breathing maledictions upon himself, or he dropped down before the dead body of his wife, uttering awful groans or lapsing into more awful silence.
An hour after midnight there came a sound of footsteps, crunching through the frozen snow, and followed by an alarm on the iron knocker at the front door, which announced the arrival of Dr. Prout, the physician of St. Inigoes.
De Crespigney, almost exhausted by the long continued violence of his emotions, was now calm with the calmness of prostration and despair.
“Nothing serious the matter, I hope!” said the cordial voice of the doctor, as he entered the room, ushered by Laban, and met by Colonel de Crespigney, who advanced to receive him.
The physician of St. Inigoes was a short, stout, round-bodied little old man, with a bald head, a smooth face, cheery voice and manner. He was always dressed in speckless black from head to foot.
“Nothing serious, I hope? Only one of madame’s usual nervous attacks, eh?” he cheerfully demanded, as he shook hands with the master of the house.
“It is her last attack, sir. She is dead,” answered De Crespigney, in steady tones.