profound meditation, she started from her seat with flashing eyes—heaving bosom—and an expression of countenance denoting a fixed determination to accomplish some deed from which her better feelings vainly bade her to abstain:—when she drew her tall—her even majestic form up to its full height, the drapery shadowing forth every contour of undulating bust and exquisitely modeled limb—while her haughty lip curled in contempt of any consideration save her own indomitable will—she appeared rather a heroine capable of leading an Amazonian army, than a woman to whom the sighing swain might venture to offer up the incense of love.
There was something awful in the aspect of this mysterious being—something ineffably grand and imposing in her demeanor—as she thus suddenly rose from her almost recumbent posture, and burst into the attitude of a resolute and energetic woman.
Drawing the wrapper around her form, she lighted a lamp, and was about to quit the chamber, when her eyes suddenly encountered the mild and benignant glance which the portrait of a lady appeared to cast upon her.
This portrait, which hung against the wall precisely opposite to the bed, represented a woman of about thirty years of age—a woman of a beauty much in the same style as that of Nisida, but not marred by anything approaching to a sternness of expression. On the contrary, if an angel had looked through those mild black eyes, their glances could not have been endowed with a holier kindness; the smiles of good spirits could not be more plaintively sweet than those which the artist had made to play upon the lips of that portrait.
Yet, in spite of this discrepancy between the expression of Nisida’s countenance and that of the lady who had formed the subject of the picture, it was not difficult to perceive a certain physical likeness between the two; nor will the reader be surprised when we state that Nisida was gazing on the portrait of her deceased mother.
And that gaze—oh! how intent, how earnest, how enthusiastic it was! It manifested something more than love—something more impassioned and ardent than the affection which a daughter might exhibit toward even a living mother; it showed a complete devotion—an adoration—a worship!
Long and fixedly did Nisida gaze upon that portrait; till suddenly from her eyes, which shot forth such burning glances, gushed a torrent of tears.
Then—probably fearful lest this weakness on her part might impair the resolution necessary to execute the purpose which she had in view—Nisida dashed away the tears from her long lashes, hastily quitted the room.
Having traversed the other two apartments of her own suit, she cast a searching glance along the passage which she now entered; and, satisfied that none of the domestics were about, for it was not yet six o’clock on that winter’s morning, she hastened to the end of the corridor.
The lamp flared with the speed at which she walked; and its uncertain light enhanced the pallor that now covered her countenance.
At the bottom of the passage she cautiously opened the door, and entered the room with which it communicated.
This was the sleeping apartment of her brother.
A single glance convinced her that he was wrapt in the arms of slumber.
He slept soundly too—for he was wearied with the vigil which he had passed by the death-bed of his father—worn out also by the thousand conflicting and unsatisfactory conjectures that the last instructions of his parent had naturally excited in his mind.
He had not, however, been asleep a quarter of an hour when Nisida stole, in the manner described, into his chamber.
A smile of mingled joy and triumph animated her countenance, and a carnation tinge flushed her cheeks when she found he was fast locked in the embrace of slumber.
Without a moment’s hesitation, she examined his doublet, and clutched the key that his father had given to him scarcely six hours before.
Then, light as the fawn, she left the room.
Having retraced her steps half-way up the passage, she paused at the door of the chamber in which the corpse of her father lay.
For an instant—a single instant—she seemed to revolt from the prosecution of her design, then, with a stern contraction of the brows, and an imperious curl of the lip—as if she said within herself, “Fool that I am to hesitate!”—she entered the room.
Without fear—without compunction, she approached the bed. The body was laid out: stretched in its winding sheet, stiff and stark did it seem to repose on the mattress—the countenance rendered more ghastly than even death could make it, by the white band which tied up the under jaw.
The nurse who had thus disposed the corpse, had retired to snatch a few hours of rest; and there was consequently no spy upon Nisida’s actions.
With a fearless step she advanced toward the closet—the mysterious closet relative to which such strange injunctions had been given.
CHAPTER III.
The Manuscript—Flora Francatelli.
Nisida’s hand trembled not as she placed the key in the lock; but when it turned, and she knew that in another instant she might open that door if she chose, she compressed her lips firmly together—she called all her courage to her aid—for she seemed to imagine that it was necessary to prepare herself to behold something frightfully appalling.
And now again her cheeks were deadly pale; but the light that burned in her eyes was brilliant in the extreme.
White as was her countenance, her large black orbs appeared to shine—to glow—to burn, as if with a violent fever.
Advancing with her left hand, she half-opened the door of the closet with her right.
Then she plunged her glances with rapidity into the recess.
But, holy God! what a start that courageous, bold, and energetic woman gave—a start as if the cold hand of a corpse had been suddenly thrust forth to grasp her.
And oh! what horror convulsed her countenance—while her lips were compressed as tightly as if they were an iron vise.
Rapidly and instantly recoiling as that glance was, it had nevertheless revealed to her an object of interest as well as of horror; for with eyes now averted, she seized something within the closet, and thrust it into her bosom.
Then, hastily closing the door, she retraced her way to her brother’s chamber.
He still slept soundly; Nisida returned the key to the pocket whence she had taken it, and hurried back to her own room, from which she had scarcely been absent five minutes.
And did she seek her couch? did she repair to rest?
No; that energetic woman experienced no weariness—yielded to no lassitude.
Carefully bolting the door of her innermost chamber, she seated herself in the arm-chair and drew from her bosom the object which she had taken from the mysterious closet.
It was a manuscript, consisting of several small slips of paper, somewhat closely written upon.
The
