"Husband!"
At this moment turn your gaze to the marriage altar. Dr. Bulgin is still there, gazing in dumb surprise, first upon the face of Frank, then upon her father. It is hard to tell which looks most ghastly and death-like. Tarleton looks like a man who has been stricken by a thunderbolt. Frank rests one hand upon the marriage altar, and raises the other to her forehead. For a moment death seems busy at her heart.
With a desperate effort, Tarleton rallies his presence of mind.
"Good evening, or, rather, good morning, doctor," he says, and then points to the door. The reverend gentleman takes the hint, and quietly fades from the room.
At times like this, one moment of resolve is worth an age. Tarleton's face is colorless, but he sees, with an ominous light in his eyes, the way clear before him. He turns aside for a moment, to the cabinet yonder, and from a small drawer, takes a slender vial, filled with a colorless liquid; then quietly glides to his daughter's side.
"Frank!"—she raises her head,—their eyes meet. He holds the vial before her face—"your husband has fainted; this will revive him." That singular smile discloses his white teeth. Frank reads his meaning at a glance. O, the unspeakable agony,—the conflict between two widely different emotions, which writhes over her face!
"No, father, no! It must not be," and she pushes the vial from her sight.
His words, uttered rapidly, and in a whisper, come through his set teeth,—"It must be,—the game cannot be lost now; in twelve hours, you know, this vial will do its work, and leave no sign!"
An expression which he cannot read, crosses her face. A moment of profound and harrowing thought,—a glance at the kneeling girl, who hides in her flowing hair, the face of her unconscious husband.
"Be it so," Frank exclaims, "give me the vial; I will administer it." Taking the vial from her father's hand, she advances to the cabinet, and for a moment bends over the open drawer.