CHAPTER XLVI.

THE PLAGUE SPOT.

Next day I received a slight wound in the left shoulder from the ball of a carbine; for the Imperialists were now close upon the Frankendör, the whole defence of which was still committed to our shattered regiment by Sir Alexander Leslie, who put implicit trust in us. I had it dressed by a passing surgeon, as I had no wish to risk myself near the frightful hospitals; and, on the firing ceasing, I went to visit Ernestine.

I found her in the little boudoir, and there was something about it and her too, that alarmed me; but then, perhaps, I was weak and nervous; provisions were so scarce that, though she knew it not, I had tasted nothing for two days. She was reclining in a large gilded fauteuil of yellow damask, stuffed with down, and her tiny feet rested on a tabourette of the same.

The room was darkened by the blinds being closely drawn; but the windows were open, and through them there swept a warm breeze, that played with the heavy hangings of velvet, and wafted the perfume of flowers from a large stand of green-painted wood bearing three rows of Dresden china vases, each containing the few flowers of the season.

She was dressed in white satin, brocaded with red flowers; it was a dress I had given her; and to please me, doubtless, she had put it on, together with a pair of beautiful pearl bracelets, for which I had given to one of Karl's pistoliers six dollars, without asking him any questions.

"Dear Ernestine, you are unwell!" said I, on perceiving that she made but a languid motion of her hand as I approached her.

"No, no!" she replied; "but the memory of all I saw yesterday affects me still--and these decayed flowers, perhaps--there, thank you," she added, as I flung the flowers referred to into the street.

She looked very pale, and I thought the tone of her voice was altered.

Next day she was even paler, and her languid air was unmistakeable. The room was shaded as before, and she sat near the half-opened window, to enjoy the cool breeze that swept over the Sound of Rügen. I hoped it was merely the deprivation of many little luxuries with which I had contrived to furnish her, long after every one else in Stralsund had ceased to think of them. Prudentia and her spouse had kindly sent me some of these things; but a few days before I had visited the shop at the corner of the Bourse, and found it closed, with a red cross chalked on the door. The plague had been there, and the drivers of the death carts were to call for the dead on their way to the trenches.

Instead of being curled according to the fashion, in little ringlets all round her charming face, Ernestine had her black hair smoothly and plainly braided over her temples; her dress was still the white brocade with the pearl bracelets; but to-day, although her face was paler still, she assured me with a smile, that she was "quite well."

She remained with her left cheek resting upon her hand, and when caressingly I attempted to kiss it, I felt as if an arrow had pierced my heart, on perceiving that which she had been striving to conceal from me--a round hectic mark, about the size of a dollar.

_It was the plague spot!_

Some frivolous remark, the natural impulse of a toying lover, died away on my lips as I saw this horrible mark, and with agony became convinced that the finger of death had printed it there. I glanced at her face.

It seemed so much paler since yesterday! It was cold, frozen, and sad looking, even when she strove to smile. Its beauty had become severe, and she seemed taller than usual in her long white stomacher. In that darkened room she looked like a white spirit, or a statue of snowy marble. Her eyes had lost their beautiful language. Sadness, intense sadness, alone remained.

"Ah! do not touch me," said she, withdrawing her hand; "leave me, Philip--leave me now!"

"Ernestine!" I exclaimed, and passionately clasping her to my breast, burst into tears.

She endeavoured to elude me, and begged, entreated, and implored me to leave her, lest I, too, might perish by her fatal touch; but I wished for nothing more. Yet I hoped she might be saved, and starting from her side, I summoned Gillian M'Bane, and despatched him for Doctor Pennicuik; I then summoned Ernestine's female attendants, who had her placed in bed.

In two hours I saw her again.

She was delirious, and imagined herself with Gabrielle and her father. Her once beautiful eyes had become bloodshot and red as coral; there was a little line of foam round her lips, and spots of purple were on her cheeks and brow.

Oh, the agony of a sight like that! Honest Pennicuik, hurried me roughly but kindly out of her apartment, and, thrusting me into a fauteuil, made me drink a glass or two of his medicated hospital wine.

Let me hurry over the relation and the memory of those sad hours of hopeless sorrow and futile anxiety.

On the second day, the fever and the delirium passed away, and I was permitted to see her; for Father Ignatius, with more than usual gravity on his long and solemn face, came to tell me that she was dying.

_Dying!_ The good man gave me his arm, for I was very weak, and a partial blindness had come over me. I hoped it was the plague, that I might go with Ernestine; but, alas! it was only the result of sheer hunger, grief, and excitement.

I stood by her bedside in that darkened chamber, the features of which are still before me; its atmosphere was close and sickly; there were vials and bottles, cups and cordials, and between the festooned curtains a pale and sickly face, with inflamed eyes and purple spots upon a snowy skin, that contrasted powerfully with two massive braids of sable hair. And this was Ernestine!

Kneeling down by the side of the bed, I stooped my brow upon her thin wan hand, and wept as if my heart would burst. Ernestine also wept, but in silence; tear after tear rolled over her hollowed cheek, for she was too feeble to raise her head, and we muttered only incoherent sentences of sorrow and endearment--which it were useless to commit to paper; for to some they might seem exaggerated--to others perhaps too cold and passionless; as I can neither impart to them nor to the reader, the agony that thrilled our hearts, though the memory of that keen agony yet lingers in my soul, like an old and painful dream.

In expression her eyes were sad and fixed; there was a smile of ineffable sweetness playing about her thin white lips; but the dew of death was on her brow and about her braided hair. Believing that she was about to rejoin her sister, the poor girl said to me--

"I have been praying for you, and for myself--thus, like St. Monica, sending my most pious thoughts as harbingers to heaven. I am going to Gabrielle--ah, how she loved me!"

I could only murmur her name; then she put forth her dear lip affectionately for one more kiss. I became bewildered, and an emotion of wild satisfaction stole into my heart.

"'Tis the plague--it has seized me, too!" I muttered joyfully. "Dear Ernestine, I will soon follow you!"

The film was again spreading over my eyes, and there was a hissing in my ears; yet I felt the cold hand of Ernestine clasped in mine, and knew that its grasp was relaxing.

Then I heard the voice of honest Father Ignatius saying in my ear, and with a voice rendered husky by emotion--

"She is dead--God receive her sinless soul! close her eyes, and kiss her, Philip--all is over now."

At that moment I heard the wheels of the dead cart rattling over the street, and the jangle of its hateful bell.

Of that mournful day, I remember no more!

* * * *

Next day I recovered, as one who awakes from a deep sleep, and all the events of yesterday rushed like a torrent of grief and pain upon my mind. Father Ignatius, who had relapsed into his immobility of aspect and demeanour, knelt at the fauteuil, reading his daily office out of a little brass-bound breviary, which he closed the moment I moved. I was lying on the floor, with a cloak spread over me.

"Would you like to see her?" he asked, in a voice of kindness.

"Lead me there, if you please."

"Then, I pray you, follow me."

I stood in the chamber of death, and there was in it an awful stillness that deeply impressed me.

She was dead--this being, whom I had loved with my whole heart, and with my whole soul, _was dead!_ yet I had neither a prayer nor a tear. I could neither form one, nor yield the other. I was frozen--stunned! She was dead! and these three words seemed written before me every where; there was a horrid stillness in my heart, and in every thing around me. The whole world seemed to be standing still; and what was now my Ernestine?

I looked upon her, but could not realize her death. The dark hair, which she was wont to dress so gracefully, was smoothed in modest braids over her pale and stonelike brow. They were very still--those glossy braids; and not a breath of air disturbed them, though the breeze lifted the leaves of her now neglected flowers. Her birds were chirping near, for their seed-boxes were empty now; the Jesuit observed this, and, notwithstanding all his sternness, even at that dreadful time he filled them, for the old man's heart was a very kind one.

Her eyes--those deep, dark, glorious eyes--were sightless now; turned back within their snow-white lids, from which the long lashes fell upon her marble cheek. Her nose seemed to have become too aquiline, too pointed and thin, for that of Ernestine; and then the lips--those cold, thin, purple lines--were compressed and rigid; but yet some beauty still was lingering there.

On the second day my Ernestine changed; her features became contracted and livid. Oh, my God! It was a mere yellow masque! I shuddered as I spread a veil over her, and could trust myself to gaze no longer.

I remembered that Gabrielle looked like a sleeping angel; but my Ernestine, more beautiful in life, was becoming ghastly and terrible in death.

"Oh, can this indeed be her who loved me so well!" was frequently my mental exclamation.

Oh, for one more glance--one respiration more! But the horrible stillness was unbroken; decay would come, but never again a glance or a smile.

I remembered now the charming delicacy, the fondness and reverence, with which she had arranged poor Gabrielle's remains for the grave, and would permit no other hands than hers to touch them. Now, she herself, whose sentiment had been so fine, so delicate, so noble, was but a poor corpse, too; but there was no sisterly hand to smooth her tresses, and arrange the ghostly garments of her long repose. She was left completely to strangers and hard-hearted followers of the camp.

I feared I would become mad, and so forget all about the plague and the siege; but I never left her side until the second day, when a tremendous salvo from the camarade battery made my heart leap within me; and then I heard the rattling drum and the yelling bagpipe summoning our soldiers to the walls. A new thought seized me!

I kissed her soft cheek, and that cold lip, whose icy touch sent a thrill of horror and agony to my heart; then, grasping my claymore, I threw myself at the head of my company, and rushed to the last defence of the Frankendör, with a deep and settled resolution to fall--to die!