A lamp was standing on the table, shedding its faint and sickly light around the narrow chamber in the tower; and a pale, emaciated form lay stretched upon a pallet close beneath the lady's eyes, as she looked through the loophole. Beside him, on a stool, was a cup containing some liquid, and a book; but the fluid had not been tasted, and he seemed but little in a condition to read. Every feature of the sick man's face betokened pain; his eyes were turned towards the rafters over head, his knees drawn up, his right arm under his head, and the thin fingers of his hand grasping the pillow, as if in bitter agony. A moan burst from his lips as Arabella watched him, and, without farther pause, she said, in a low but distinct voice, "Sir Thomas--Sir Thomas Overbury!"

The unhappy man started up, and looked round the room with faint and weary eyes, but could see no one.

"Who is that?" he asked, turning his face at length towards the window. "Some one called me. Whose face is that? I cannot see the features."

"It is I," answered the lady--"it is I--a friend, Sir Thomas."

"A friend?" said Overbury, with a woful shake of the head. "God help us!--Is there such a thing?"

"It is Arabella Seymour," replied the lady--"once Arabella Stuart, and she comes to comfort you, as far as a weak fellow captive can."

"Ah, lady, lady," exclaimed Overbury, "does one whose misery I myself have wrought, come now to comfort me, and generously call herself my friend?"

"Yes, Sir Thomas," answered Arabella; "and I beseech you remember, that not only a poor fallible creature like yourself, but the God whom we have offended, the Saviour whom we crucified, comes likewise to the sick bed of every sinner, calls himself his friend, and offers comfort, hope, and consolation, if we will but accept it."

"Lady, I have been trying to think of such things," replied the dying man; "I have been trying to turn my thoughts to my Saviour; but I am tormented by fiends in human shape, that give me no rest. Lady, I am dying of poison. For weeks I have taken nothing that is not drugged. My food, my drink, the very salt,[[9]] which, once given by the wild Arab, secures his bitterest enemy from his vengeance, is mingled with deadly minerals."

"Alas, alas!" cried Arabella, with the tears rising in her eyes, "how can I help you.