He looked at the physician, who sat near to, and silent by the bedside, and patiently awaited whatever event might occur.
Verezzi slowly rose, and violently exclaimed, “Julia! Julia! my long-lost Julia, come!” And then, more collected, he added, in a mournful tone, “Ah, no! you are dead; lost, lost for ever!”
He turned round and saw the physician, but Matilda was still concealed.
“Where am I?” inquired Verezzi, addressing the physician.
“Safe, safe,” answered he, “compose yourself; all will be well.”
“Ah, but Julia?” inquired Verezzi, with a tone so expressive of despair, as threatened returning delirium.
“Oh! compose yourself,” said the humane physician; “you have been very ill; this is but an illusion of the imagination; and even now, I fear that you labour under that delirium which attends a brain-fever.”
Verezzi’s nerveless frame again sunk upon the bed—still his eyes were open, and fixed upon vacancy; he seemed to be endeavouring to arrange the confusion of ideas which pressed upon his brain.
Matilda undrew the curtain; but, as her eye met the physician’s, his glance told her to place it in its original situation.
As she thought of the events of the day, her heart was dilated by tumultuous, yet pleasurable emotions. She conjectured that were Verezzi to recover, of which she now entertained but little doubt, she might easily erase from his heart the boyish passion which before had possessed it; might convince him of the folly of supposing that a first attachment is fated to endure for ever; and, by unremitting assiduity in pleasing him—by soft, quiet attentions, and an affected sensibility, might at last acquire the attainment of that object for which her bosom had so long and so ardently panted.