"She will die instantaneously if the dagger is withdrawn. I am familiar with the thrusts of these Venetian bravi—when they aim at the heart, death follows the stroke immediately; but when they strike the breast, it ensues with a gush of blood, at the withdrawal of the weapon."
"Is there any—hope?"
The doctor knew not how to shape an answer to this heart-rending appeal. He turned away his face, and Eugene understood the mute reply.
"How long?" asked he, almost inaudibly.
"If it were any other woman, I should expect internal hemorrhage to ensue within half an hour; but the strong will of the marchioness will ward off death for the space of an hour."
Eugene stifled a groan. "O God! is there no, no help?"
"None. Science cannot prevail against the well-directed blow of a
Venetian dagger. But the marchioness will not suffer."
"No," sobbed Eugene, "for she dies; but I—I—"
"Go to her, my dear friend—go before she calls, for every exertion she makes will hasten the end."
Eugene wrung his hands. "Not yet—I cannot. I must have a moment to conquer this overwhelming anguish. Go to her yourself, doctor—tell her—I—"