Claudia, though her dilated eyes were fixed in eager questioning on the face of her father, and though her ears were strained to catch his low-toned words, yet did not seem to gather in his meaning.
"What—what do you say, papa? Explain!" she breathed in scarcely audible syllables.
"The Viscount Vincent is dead!"
"Dead!" ejaculated Claudia.
"Dead!" echoed the countess.
"Dead, by his own act!" repeated the judge.
Claudia sank back in the corner of the sofa and covered her face with her hands—overcome, not by sorrow certainly, but by awe and pity.
Berenice sat down beside the newly made widow, and put her arms around her waist, and drew her head upon her bosom. Judge Merlin stood silently before them. The only one who seemed to have the full possession of his faculties was Ishmael.
He quietly dismissed the gaping servants from the room, closed the doors, and drew a resting-chair to the side of his old friend, and gently constrained him to sit down in it. And then he was about to glide away when the judge seized his hand and detained him, saying imploringly:
"No, no, Ishmael! no, no, my dearest young friend! do not leave us at this solemn crisis."