Amabel’s delirium produced a high fever, which continued for three days.  Her screams were at times so dreadful, that her betrayer shut himself up in the furthest part of the house, that he might not hear them.  When at last she sank into a sleep like that of death, produced by powerful opiates, he stole into the room, and gazed at her with feelings which those who watched his countenance did not envy.  It was hoped by the chirurgeon in attendance, that when the violence of the fever abated, Amabel’s reason would be restored.  But it was not so.  Her faculties were completely shaken, and the cause of her affliction being effaced from her memory, she now spoke of the Earl of Rochester with her former affection.

Her betrayer once ventured into her presence, but he did not repeat the visit.  Her looks and her tenderness were more than even his firmness could bear, and he hurried away to hide his emotion from the attendants.  Several days passed on, and as no improvement took place, the earl, who began to find the stings of conscience too sharp for further endurance, resolved to try to deaden the pangs by again plunging into the dissipation of the court.  Prudence had been seized by the plague, and removed to the pest-house, and not knowing to whom to entrust Amabel, it at last occurred to him that Judith Malmayns would be a fitting person, and he accordingly sent for her from Saint Paul’s, and communicated his wishes to her, offering her a considerable reward for the service.  Judith readily undertook the office, and the earl delayed his departure for two days, to see how all went on; and finding the arrangements, to all appearances, answer perfectly, he departed with Etherege and Pillichody.

Ever since the communication of the fatal truth had been made to her by the earl, his unfortunate victim had occupied the large oak-panelled chamber, on entering which so sad a presentiment had seized her; and she had never quitted the bed where she thought she would breathe her last.  On the night of Rochester’s departure she made many inquiries concerning him from Judith Malmayns, who was seated in an old broad-cushioned, velvet-covered chair, beside her, and was told that the king required his attendance at Oxford, but that he would soon return.  At this answer the tears gathered thickly in Amabel’s dark eyelashes, and she remained silent.  By-and-by she resumed the conversation.

“Do you know, nurse,” she said, with a look of extreme anxiety, “I have forgotten my prayers.  Repeat them to me, and I will say them after you.”

“My memory is as bad as your ladyship’s,” replied Judith, contemptuously.  “It is so long since I said mine, that I have quite forgotten them.”

“That is wrong in you,” returned Amabel, “very wrong.  When I lived with my dear father, we had prayers morning and evening, and I was never so happy as then.  I feel it would do me good if I could pray as I used to do.”