“Who’s below?” he said sharply, as he turned towards the door.
“Jane Glyne,” she said, moaning; and then once more she tried to clasp his neck.
“What’s the matter with you?” he cried mockingly, as he thrust her arm away, and, catching up the glass, he raised it to his lips.
“No, no!” she cried, her coldness giving way to a look of horror; “don’t drink it;” and she threw up her hands to seize the glass. But once more his hand fell heavily upon her, and she shrank away, covering her bruised face with her fingers, as he drained the glass and then dropped it, to shiver to atoms on the fender.
“What! That brandy?” he cried, with his face convulsed. “What have you given me to drink?”
“Death!” she said sternly, as she dropped her hands, to stare him full in the face.
He caught at the mantelpiece and steadied himself, his lips parting, but no words came. Then, with his countenance changing horribly, he said in a hoarse whisper:
“How long?”
She grasped his meaning, and shook her head. He smiled, and swung himself to the table, caught the decanter in his hand, and stood pointing.
“A glass—quick!”