Her father spoke not.
"I _have_ loved!--Oh, faithfully. But, now--let me die without a murmur
to Thee, or one wish but Thy will, and I am happy!" She raised her soft
and streaming eyes towards the throne of that Mercy she addressed. The
cloud passed, but she sank back on her pillow, exhausted with the
conflict. Her father bent over her in silent terror, anticipating the
last struggle. Suddenly he exclaimed, as if to call back the yet
lingering spirit:--
"Live, my Constance! Could I save thee, thou blighted bud--blighted by
my"--His lip grew pale; he struck his forehead, and a groan like the
last expiring throe of nature escaped him.
"Would the destroyer of my peace were here!--'Tis too late--or I would
not now forbid thy love. But he was a traitor, a rebel--else"----
Constance gradually revived from her insensibility. A sudden flash from
the departing spirit seemed to have animated her--a new and vehement
energy, which strangely contrasted with her weak and debilitated frame.
"I have seen him," she cried. "Oh, methought his form passed before
me;--but it is gone!" She looked eagerly round the apartment; other eyes
involuntarily followed,--but no living object could be distinguished
through the chill and oppressive gloom that brooded over that chamber of
death.
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