his wife's movements, not stirring, his eyes glazing fast as they watched the agonies of that slight frame. By degrees the wail of pain died into a low moan — the convulsions grew feebler, but more frequent — the glow of fever faded into the blue pale tinge that settles into the last bloodless marble.
The daylight came broader and clearer through the casement — steps were heard on the stairs — the old woman entered hastily: she rushed to the bed, cast a glance on the patient — "She lives yet, Signor — she lives!"
Viola raised her eyes — the child's head was pillowed on her bosom — and she beheld Zanoni. He smiled on her with a tender and soft approval, and took the infant from her arms. Yet even then, as she saw him bending silently over that pale face, a superstitious fear mingled with her hopes. "Was it by lawful — by holy art that—" her self-questioning ceased abruptly; for his dark eye turned to her as if he read her soul: and his aspect accused her conscience for its suspicion, for it spoke reproach not unmingled with disdain.
"Be comforted," he said, gently turning to the old man; "the danger is not beyond the reach of human skill;" and, taking from his bosom a small crystal vase, he mingled a few drops with water. No sooner did this medicine moisten the infant's lips, than it seemed to produce an astonishing effect. The colour revived rapidly on the lips and cheeks; in a few moments the sufferer slept calmly, and with the regular breathing of painless sleep. And then the old man
