Clara's face showed even greater agony, the Countess Frankenstein watched the count's manipulations with the deepest anxiety, Stielow wrung his hands in silent grief, and Father Ignatius moved his lips in prayer.
The count took another bottle, half filled a glass with pure water, and slowly and carefully counted the drops as he let them fall from the fluid in the phial.
The water grew blood red, a strong, peculiar odour spread through the room.
The count touched the patient's brow lightly with his finger.
She opened her eyes; her countenance still expressed burning pain.
"Drink this!" said the count in a gentle but commanding tone. At the same time he carefully raised her head and placed the glass to her lips.
She took the contents. His eyes watched her attentively.
After a short time her face grew calmer, the contraction from the violence of the pain became less. She opened her eyes, and drew in a deep breath as if relieved.
"Ah! what good that does me!" she whispered.
An expression of satisfaction appeared on the count's face, then he said in a grave, solemn voice: