After these words came a low murmuring for several minutes, as if two persons were speaking together in an under tone; and, unable to refrain any longer, Arabella raised her head and looked in.
The two men, Weston and Franklyn, who had been appointed to attend upon Sir Thomas Overbury in prison, were standing together near the table, apparently in consultation, with their heads close together, and far too eager in the dreadful occupation which they had undertaken, to notice, at the dark window, the face gazing at them from without. At length, the former approached the bedside of the prisoner, while the other went round towards the head of the couch, saying, in a civil tone, "I wish you would take something, Sir Thomas."
"I will not," cried the unhappy man. "What are you doing there?" he added.
"Only smoothing your bolster," replied the villain; but at the same instant he snatched the pillow from beneath the dying man's head, and cast it upon his face. The other murderer threw himself upon it, while Weston held it tightly down; and, with a loud and piercing scream, Arabella clasped her hands together, and darted away along the wall, crying, "Murder, Murder!"
Ida Mara followed her as fast as possible, but she was not yet concealed by the buildings, when one of the men looked out. He instantly ran back, pale and trembling, and whispered to his companion, who was still holding the pillow tightly down over the face of their victim, "He is gone; you may take it off--I have seen his spirit!"
Weston gazed at him with wild and haggard eyes for a moment, and then removed the pillow. A slight convulsion passed across Overbury's countenance, and then all was still.
[CHAPTER XLIV.]
Ida Mara sat by the bedside of Arabella during the whole of that night, and a sad and terrible night it was. Her mind, agitated and worn with her own cares, had given way at the terrible sight which she had witnessed. The dark deed haunted her imagination; the forms of the murderers still appeared before her eyes; she heard their voices ringing in her ears; the last look of their wretched victim, before they extinguished the lingering spark of life for ever, remained present to her remembrance, hanging like a terrible picture before her, and her thoughts and words were all confused and wild.
Ida Mara hoped and trusted that time would remove such horrible images, and restore the sweet being she so dearly loved to tranquillity and reason. But day went by after day, and although some slight amendment was perceptible, Arabella's mind never recovered its tone. At times, indeed, she would be quite collected and calm; would speak, and reason, and lament, and weep over her fate, as she had been accustomed to do before. But often, even in the midst of her most quiet conversation, when no subject of a painful or exciting nature engaged her thoughts, she would suddenly seem to lose herself; her words would become rambling and unconnected; and she would pause and put her hand to her head, as if she felt that all was not right there, ending with a long deep fit of silence, afraid to speak, lest what she uttered should be incoherent.
At other times, again, her mind would be quite astray; she would fancy she saw strange faces, and heard dying groans; she would think that she herself was to be murdered, and would cling to Ida in terror, grievous to behold.