“Matilda,” he said, in a voice in which melancholy and sternness were blended, “We have been the children of guilt—­the victims of our own evil passions; but God is merciful, and if our penitence be sincere, we may yet be forgiven in Heaven, although on earth there is no hope—­even if after this we could wish to live.  Matilda, let us pray together.”

There was no answer—­neither did the slightest movement of her form indicate consciousness that she was addressed.  “Matilda,” repeated Gerald—­still there was no answer.  He placed his hand upon her cheek, and thought the touch was cold—­he caught her hand, it too was cold and but for the absence of rigidity he would have deemed her dead.

Scarcely knowing what he did, yet with an indefinable terror at his heart, he grasped and shook her by the arm, and again, but with greater vehemence, pronounced her name.

“Who calls?” she said, in a faint but deep tone, as she raised her head slowly from the cushion which supported it.  “Ha!  I recollect.  Tell me,” she added more quickly, “was not the blow well aimed.  Marked you how the traitor fell.  Villain, to accuse the woman whose only fault was loving him too well, with ignominious commerce with a slave!”

“Wretched woman,” exclaimed Gerald with solemn emphasis, “instead of exulting over the evil we have done, let us rather make our peace with Heaven, during the few hours we have yet to live.  Matilda Desborough—­daughter of a murderer; thyself a murderess—­the scaffold awaits us both.”

“Coward—­fool—­thou liest,” she returned with suddenly awakened energy.  “For one so changeling as thyself the scaffold were befitting;, but know, if I have had the heart to do this deed, I have also had the head to provide against its consequences—­see—­feel—.”

One of her cold hands was extended in search of Gerald’s.  They met, and a vial placed in the palm of the latter, betrayed the secret of her previous lassitude and insensibility.

Even amid all the horrors which environed him, and called so largely on attention to his own personal danger, Gerald was inexpressibly shocked.

“What! poisoned?” he exclaimed.

“Yes—­poisoned!” she murmured, and her hand again sank heavily at her side.

Gerald dashed the vial away from him to the farther end of the apartment, and taking the cold hand of the unhappy woman, he continued: 

“Matilda—­is this the manner in which you prepare yourself to meet the presence of your God.  What! add suicide to murder?”

But she spoke not—­presently the hand he clasped sank heavily from his touch.  Then there was a spasmodic convulsion of the whole frame.  Then there burst a piercing shriek from her lips, as she half raised herself in agony from the sofa, and then each limb was set and motionless in the stern rigidity of death.

While Gerald was yet bending over the body of his unfortunate companion, shocked, grieved and agitated beyond all expression, the door of the temple was unlocked, and a man enveloped in a cloak, and bearing a small dark lantern, suddenly appeared in the opening.  He advanced towards the spot where Gerald, stupified with the events of the past night, stood gazing upon the corpse, almost unconscious of the presence of the intruder.