Near the bed there stood a pitcher which the monks replenished every evening with water cold from a mountain spring. Approaching it, she took a powder from her bosom and shook it into it, every grain. Then she turned the pitcher round and round, to mix the fine powder, which stood on the surface. Suddenly she started, and set it down, while scalding tears slowly coursed down her pale cheeks. Desperate thoughts crowded thickly on her brain, as her stony gaze was riveted on the water, whose crystal clearness had not been clouded by the subtle poison.
"Between us stands the shade of Crescentius," she muttered. "Still I can not cease to love him,—each bound to each,—together, yet perpetually divided,—our love a flower that the hand of death will gather."
Again there was a long, intense hush. She crept to Otto's bed and knelt down by his side, hiding her wet face on her bare arms.
"When he is dead," she continued speaking softly, so as not to wake him, "the unpardonable sin will be condoned.—Otto, Otto,—how I love you,—if I loved you less,—you might live—"
At these words he stirred in the cushions. A deep sigh came from his lips, as if the mountain of a heavy dream had been lifted from his breast.
She drew back terrified, but noting that he did not open his eyes, she spoke with a moan of weariness:
"How often thus in my dreams have I seen his dead face—"
Again she bent over the sleeper. Now she could not discern a breath. A strange dread seized her, and her face became as wan and haggard as that of the fever-stricken youth. Obeying a sudden impulse she removed the pitcher of water, placing it in a remote niche. Then she crept back to Otto's couch.
"Is he dead?" she whispered, as if seized by a strange delirium. "Is he dead? I know not,—yet none knows,—but I! None,—but I!"
She gave a start, as if she had discovered a listener, glanced wildly about the room, at each familiar object in the chamber, and met Otto's eyes.