"Poor butterfly! whom one more revolution of the wheel of fate will crush—thou thinkest not of thyself——"
"I think only of him, and of nothing else; I live but for him now—'tis three days—only three days!" She added, incoherently, "What is said in the town, at the court, at the palace? Will he be punished for defending me so boldly, so valiantly? My dear Roland—three days—oh, who is like thee? None—and none will ever be like thee!"
"I will recast his horoscope, for I know, lady, the star of his nativity. This night it will be in Azebone, the head of the sixteenth mansion, and by its digression I will judge me of his fate. It will require a long and careful calculation, lady," said the deacon of the apothegars, shaking his long beard, solemnly, "and yet, gramercy me! I have known as mickle foreseen by coscinomancy, which meaneth divination by a sieve; but that, as thou knowest, is altogether beneath one like me, who knoweth the difference of sublimities and the distance of the stars."
"Oh, Roland—Roland!" murmured Jane (who understood not a word of all this), as she pressed her trembling hands upon her heart, "I love thee now with the love of the unfortunate; and that, indeed, is a strong love, for by few are the unfortunate loved in return."
"Thy pulse is quick and low," said the physician, placing his bony fingers on her white and slender wrist, which was fretted and chafed by the detestable manacle that encircled it; "thou sighest deeply, thou flushest and becomest chilly by turns. Is thy tongue dry, and is thy brain giddy? Yes, I know they are. By the mass, I know thou art intensely feverish. Now the pulse flutters, and the skin becomes moist—fever—fever—nervous fever! Didst thou take the metheglin my servitor brought thee?"
"Yes," said Jane, mechanically.
"Ah! and were much the better thereof?"
"I really do not know."
"Ah, you must have been; 'tis a compound of wort, herbs, honey, and spices, forming a wondrous and soothing restorative."
"What need of a restorative, sir? In three days all will be over."