The straining eyeballs were ghastly to look upon—the once beautiful face was now swollen and hideous, as she lay stark dead in that lonely room.
Moment after moment passed away, while the murderers stood silently gazing on their victim. The deep silence of midnight was around—nothing was heard save the occasional drifting of the snow against the windows.
A stern, grave smile hovered on the lips of Mrs. Oranmore, as she gazed on the convulsed face of the dead girl. Drawing the quilt at last over her, she turned away, saying, mockingly:
"Where now, Esther Oranmore, is the beauty of which you were so proud? This stark form and ghastly face is now all that remains of the beauty and heiress of Squire Erliston. Such shall be the fate, sooner or later, of all who dare to thwart me."
Her eyes flamed upon the shrinking man beside her, with an expression that made him quake. A grim smile of self-satisfied power broke over her dark face as she observed it, and her voice had a steely tone of command, as she said:
"Now for the child. It must be immediately disposed of."
"And she?" said the doctor, pointing to the bed.
"I shall attend to that."
"If you like, madam, I will save you the trouble."
"No, sir," she replied, sharply; "though in life my enemy, her remains shall never be given up to the dissecting-knife. I have not forgotten she is a gentleman's daughter, and as such she shall be interred. Now you may go. Wrap the child in this, and—return without her!"