A burning fever raged through his veins.
“Oh, how is he?” exclaimed Matilda, as, anxiously watching the humane physician’s countenance, she thought a shade of sorrow spread itself over his features—“but tell me my fate quickly,” continued she: “I am prepared to hear the worst—prepared to hear that he is even dead already.”
As she spoke this, a sort of desperate serenity overspread her features. She seized the physician’s arm, and looked steadfastly on his countenance, and then, as if overcome by unwonted exertions, she sank fainting at his feet.
The physician raised her, and soon succeeded in recalling her fleeted faculties.
Overcome by its own violence, Matilda’s despair became softened, and the words of the physician operated as a balm upon her soul, and bid her feel hope.
She again resumed her seat, and waited with smothered impatience for the event of the decisive crisis, which the physician could now no longer conceal.
She pressed his burning hand in hers, and waited, with apparent composure, for eleven o’clock.
Slowly the hours passed—the clock of Passau tolled each lingering quarter as they rolled away, and hastened towards the appointed time, when the chamber-door of Verezzi was slowly opened by Ferdinand.
“Ha! why do you disturb me now?” exclaimed Matilda, whom the entrance of Ferdinand had roused from a profound reverie.
“Signora!” whispered Ferdinand—“Signor Zastrozzi waits below: he wishes to see you there.”