"Madam!" he exclaimed, recoiling suddenly.
"You hear me, doctor, and you must obey. She must not live to see Christmas morning dawn."
"Would you have me murder her?" he inquired, in a voice quivering between fear and horror.
"If you will call it by that name, yes," she replied, still keeping her blazing eyes fixed immovably on his face. "She and her child must die."
"Her child!"
"Yes, come and see it. The night of its birth must be that of its death."
She rose, and making a motion for him to follow her, led the way from the apartment. Opening a heavy oaken door, she ushered him into a dim bed-room, furnished with a lounge, a square bedstead, whose dark drapery gave it the appearance of a hearse, and a small table covered with bottles and glasses. Going to the lounge, she pointed to something wrapped in a large shawl. He bent down, and the faint wail of an infant met his ear.
"She is yonder," said the lady, pointing to the bed; "examine these bottles; she will ask you for a drink, give it to her—you understand! Remember, you have promised." And before he could speak, she glided from the room.