“A victorious heroine!” she said, sadly. “A heroine who is struggling with death! Do not look at me with such consternation, Philip—I am well. It is only that joy and surprise have made me feel a little weak. You do not find that I look ill, and therefore I am not ill; you say I will recover, and therefore I will recover. Tell me once more that I am not ill, that I will recover!”
“You will recover; you will bloom again in happiness and joy.”
“You say these words in a sad voice, as though you did not believe them yourself! But I will not die; no, I will not! I am too young; I have not lived long enough. Life still owes me so much happiness. I will not die! I will live—live!”
She uttered this in loud tones of anguish, as though Life were an armed warrior to whom she appealed to defend her against Death, who was approaching her with a murderous dagger in his bony hand. But Life had no longer a weapon with which to defend her; it timidly recoiled before the king who is mightier than the King of Life, and whose sceptre is a scythe with which he mows down humanity as the reaper harvests the grain of the fields.
“Philip, my Philip,” cried Marie, her countenance quivering with pain, “remain with me, my beloved! It is growing so dark, and—There, how my breast pains me again! Alas, you have scattered flowers at my feet, but the thorns have remained in my heart! And they pain so terribly! it is growing dark—dark!—Trude!”
The old woman, who had been waiting at the threshold with the humility of a faithful dog, threw the door open and rushed forward to her darling, who lay in the arm-chair, with closed eyes, pale and motionless, her head resting on Moritz’s arm.
“Trude, call the physician!” cried he, in dismay. “Run for assistance! Run! run! She must not die! She shall not leave me! O God, Thou canst not desire to tear her from me! Thou permittedst me to hear her voice when in Rome, when widely separated from her, and I answered this call and flew here on the wings of the wind. It cannot be Thy will that I am to be surrounded by eternal silence—that I am never more to hear this dear voice!—Help me, Trude! Why do you not call the physician?”
“It is useless, dear sir, useless,” whispered Trude, whose tears were still flowing in torrents. “All the physicians say that her case is hopeless; they told me that this would occur, and that all would then be at an end. But perhaps this is only a swoon; perhaps we can awaken her once more.”
Was it the strengthening essence with which Trude rubbed her forehead, the strong musk-drops which she poured between Marie’s parted lips, or was it the imploring voice in which Moritz called her name, and conjured her not to leave him?—Marie opened her eyes and cast a look of ineffable tenderness at the pale, horror-stricken countenance of her lover, who was again kneeling at her feet, his arms clasped convulsively around her person, as if in a last despairing effort to withhold her from the King of Terrors, who had already stretched out his skeleton arm to grasp his victim.