And there she sat, so calm and pale,
That but her breathing did not fail,
And motion slight of eye and head,
And of her bosom warranted
That neither sense nor pulse she lacks,
You might have thought a form of wax,
Wrought to the very life was there,
So still she was, so pale, so fair.—Scott.
A few days after the incidents recorded in the last chapter, Mrs. Georgia Clifton entered Zuleime’s room. The poor girl was sitting in an arm-chair near the window, idle, as was never her habit before, with her hands lying languidly one over the other, and her eyes fixed upon vacancy.
The beauty went to her with her soft, winning way, and took her hand, and stole her arm over her shoulder, and said, tenderly—