In spite of herself the image of Francisco was still uppermost in her thoughts; and, in the contemplative vein thus encouraged, her eyes lingered, unwittingly—and through no base motive of curiosity—upon the writing which that paper contained.
Thus she actually found herself reading the first four lines of the writing, before she recollected what she was doing.
The act was a purely mechanical one, which not the most rigid moralist could blame.
And had the contents of the paper been of no interest, she might even have continued to read more in that same abstracted mood; but those four first lines were of a nature which sent a thrilling sensation of horror through her entire frame; the feeling terminating with an icy coldness of the heart.
She shuddered without starting—shuddered as she stood; and not even a murmur escaped her lips.
The intenseness of that sudden pang of horror deprived her alike of speech and motion during the instant that it lasted.
And those lines, which produced so strange an impression upon the young maiden, ran thus:
“merciless scalpel hacked and hewed away at the still almost palpitating flesh of the murdered man, in whose breast the dagger remained buried—a ferocious joy—a savage hyena-like triumph——”
Flora read no more; she could not—even if she had wished.
For a minute she remained rooted to the spot; then she threw herself into the chair, bewildered and dismayed at the terrible words which had met her eyes.