“Blessed Virgin, help me!” whispered Teresa, poured the drachm and drank it.
Then with a sob she stretched herself on the altar cushions and laid the “Romeo and Juliet” open on her breast.
When finally—his wonder and indignation having given place to apprehension—the chaplain employed a dragoon’s stout shoulder to force the chapel door, he distinguished at first only emptiness.
He approached the altar to start back with an exclamation of dismay at what he saw stretched in the candle-light.
He laid a faltering hand on Teresa’s; it was already chilled. He raised her eyelid—the pupil was expanded to the iris’ edge. He felt her pulse, her heart. Both were still. A cry of horror broke from his lips, as he saw a phial lying uncorked beside her. He picked it up, noting the far-faint halitus of the deadly elixir.
His cry brought Elise, with the nuns behind her. The old woman pushed past the peering trooper and rushed to throw herself beside the altar with a wail of lamentation.
The chaplain lifted her and drew her away.
“Go back to the house,” he bade her sternly; “let no servant enter here till word comes from Casa Guiccioli.” He waved the black-gowned figures back to the threshold. “She is self-slain!” he said.
In the confusion none of them had seen a man enter the garden from the side, who, hearing the first alarm, had swiftly approached the chapel. No one had seen him enter the open door behind them.