"He would not, I am sure, give utterance to any scandal," continued Lady Rookwood. "You say this but to try me, do you not?—ha! what is this? Your hand is bloody. You have not harmed him? Whose blood is this?"
"Your brother spat upon my check. I have washed out the stain," replied Sir Reginald, coldly.
"Then it is his blood!" shrieked Lady Rookwood, pressing her hand shuddering before her eyes. "Is he dead?"
Sir Reginald turned away.
"Stay," she cried, exerting her feeble strength to retain him, and becoming white as ashes, "abide and hear me. You have killed me, I feel, by your cruelty. I am sinking fast—dying. I, who loved you, only you; yes, one besides—my brother, and you have slain him. Your hands are dripping in his blood, and I have kissed them—have clasped them! And now," continued she, with an energy that shook Sir Reginald, "I hate you—I renounce you—forever! May my dying words ring in your ears on your death-bed, for that hour will come. You cannot shun that. Then think of him! think of me!"
"Away!" interrupted Sir Reginald, endeavoring to shake her off.
"I will not away! I will cling to you—will curse you. My unborn child shall live to curse you—to requite you—to visit my wrongs on you and yours. Weak as I am, you shall not cast me off. You shall learn to fear even me."
"I fear nothing living, much less a frantic woman."
"Fear the dead, then."
There was a struggle—a blow—and the wretched lady sank, shrieking, upon the floor. Convulsions seized her. A mother's pains succeeded fierce and fast. She spoke no more, but died within the hour, giving birth to a female child.