"She is dead—God receive her sinless soul! close her eyes, and kiss her, Philip—all is over now."
At that moment I heard the wheels of the dead cart rattling over the street, and the jangle of its hateful bell.
Of that mournful day, I remember no more!
* * * *
Next day I recovered, as one who awakes from a deep sleep, and all the events of yesterday rushed like a torrent of grief and pain upon my mind. Father Ignatius, who had relapsed into his immobility of aspect and demeanour, knelt at the fauteuil, reading his daily office out of a little brass-bound breviary, which he closed the moment I moved. I was lying on the floor, with a cloak spread over me.
"Would you like to see her?" he asked, in a voice of kindness.
"Lead me there, if you please."
"Then, I pray you, follow me."
I stood in the chamber of death, and there was in it an awful stillness that deeply impressed me.
She was dead—this being, whom I had loved with my whole heart, and with my whole soul, was dead! yet I had neither a prayer nor a tear. I could neither form one, nor yield the other. I was frozen—stunned! She was dead! and these three words seemed written before me every where; there was a horrid stillness in my heart, and in every thing around me. The whole world seemed to be standing still; and what was now my Ernestine?