“The enemy, retiring, blew the bastion into the air, and Dujardin—­is dead.”

“Dead!” said Josephine, in stupefied tones, as if the word conveyed no meaning to her mind, benumbed and stunned by the blow.

“Don’t speak so loud,” said Raynal; “I hear the poor girl at the door.  Ay, he took my place, and is dead.”

“Dead!”

“Swallowed up in smoke and flames, overwhelmed and crushed under the ruins.”

Josephine’s whole body gave way, and heaved like a tree falling under the axe.  She sank slowly to her knees, and low moans of agony broke from her at intervals.  “Dead, dead, dead!”

“Is it not terrible?” he cried.

She did not see him nor hear him, but moaned out wildly, “Dead, dead, dead!” The bedroom-door was opened.

She shrieked with sudden violence, “Dead! ah, pity! the glass! the composing draught.”  She stretched her hands out wildly.  Raynal, with a face full of concern, ran to the table, and got the glass.  She crawled on her knees to meet it; he brought it quickly to her hand.

“There, my poor soul!”

Even as their hands met, Rose threw herself on the cup, and snatched it with fury from them both.  She was white as ashes, and her eyes, supernaturally large, glared on Raynal with terror.  “Madman!” she cried, “would you kill her?”

He glared back on her:  what did this mean?  Their eyes were fixed on each other like combatants for life and death; they did not see that the room was filling with people, that the doctor was only on the other side of the table, and that the baroness and Edouard were at the door, and all looking wonderstruck at this strange sight—­Josephine on her knees, and those two facing each other, white, with dilating eyes, the glass between them.

But what was that to the horror, when the next moment the patient Josephine started to her feet, and, standing in the midst, tore her hair by handfuls, out of her head.

“Ah, you snatch the kind poison from me!”

“Poison!”

“Poison!”

“Poison!” cried the others, horror-stricken.

“Ah! you won’t let me die.  Curse you all! curse you!  I never had my own way in anything.  I was always a slave and a fool.  I have murdered the man I love—­I love.  Yes, my husband, do you hear? the man I love.”

“Hush! daughter, respect my gray hairs.”

“Your gray hairs!  You are not so old in years as I am in agony.  So this is your love, Rose!  Ah, you won’t let me die—­won’t you?  Then I’ll do worse—­I’ll tell.”

“He who is dead; you have murdered him amongst you, and I’ll follow him in spite of you all—­he was my betrothed.  He struggled wounded, bleeding, to my feet.  He found me married.  News came of my husband’s death; I married my betrothed.”

“Married him!” exclaimed the baroness.