CHAPTER LXII.
THE SICK-ROOM—FLORENCE IN DISMAY.
It was about an hour past daybreak on the 1st of October,—five days after the incidents related in the three preceding chapters. Nisida, worn out with long watchings and vigils in her brother’s chamber, had retired to her own apartment; but not before she had seen Francisco fall into a sleep which, under the influence of a narcotic ordered by the physician, promised to be long and soothing. The lady had not quitted the chamber of the invalid ten minutes, when the door was slightly opened; and some one’s looks were plunged rapidly and searchingly into the room:—then the visitor, doubtless satisfied by the result of his survey, stole cautiously in.
He advanced straight up to the table which stood near the bed, drew a small vial from the bosom of his doublet—and poured its crystal contents into the beverage prepared to quench the thirst of the invalid. Then, as he again secured the vial about his person, he murmured, “The medicament of Christian Rosencrux will doubtless work greater wonders than those of Dr. Duras, skilled though the latter be!”
Having thus mused to himself, the visitor shook Francisco gently; and the young count awoke, exclaiming petulantly that he was athirst. A goblet of the beverage containing the Rosicrucian fluid, was immediately conveyed to his lips, and he drank the refreshing draught with eagerness.
The effect was marvelous, indeed;—a sudden tinge of healthy red appeared upon the cheeks a moment before so ashy pale—and fire once more animated the blue eyes—and Francisco recovered complete consciousness and self-possession for the first time since the dread morning when he was attacked with a dangerous illness.
He closed his eyes for a few minutes; and when he opened them again, he was surprised to perceive by his bedside a young, well-attired, and very handsome man, whose countenance appeared to be familiar to him.
“Count of Riverola,” said the visitor, bending over him, and speaking in a low but kind tone, “despair not! Succor is at hand—and ere forty-eight hours shall have passed away, your well-beloved Flora will be free!”
Joy lighted up the countenance of the young nobleman, as these delightful words met his ears; and, seizing his consoler’s hand, he exclaimed:
“A thousand thanks for this assurance! But, have we not met before?—or was it in those wild dreams which have haunted my imagination that I have seen thee?”
“Yes—we have met before, count,” was the reply. “Dost thou not remember Fernand Wagner?”