"The death warrant!"
Lyon Berners uttered these words with such a groan of anguish and despair as seemed to have rent his soul and body asunder as he reeled and caught at the window frame for support, and then dropped into a chair by its side.
"Mr. Berners, for her sake! for heaven's sake! bear up now! Martin, a glass of brandy here! quick!"
The warden who always kept a bottle on his desk, hurriedly filled a tumbler half full of brandy, and hastened up with it.
"Drink it! drink it all!" said the sheriff, putting the glass into Mr. Berners' hand.
Lyon Berners drank the strong and fiery spirit, feeling it no more than if it had been water.
A few moments passed, during which Mr. Berners struggled hard for self-control, while the warden in a low voice inquired:
"What is it?"
"The death warrant!"
As the sheriff whispered these awful words, the warden clasped his hands, saying fervently: