testified to the natural ferocity and cruelty of the person who had selected them.  Behind the bed the crimson silk curtains had been drawn apart, exposing to view the representation of Jason’s terrible conflict with the fierce, brazen bulls that guarded the golden fleece, and Vallombreuse, lying senseless below them, looked as if he might have been one of their victims.  Various suits of clothes, of the greatest richness and elegance, which had been successively tried on and rejected, were scattered about, and in a splendid great Japanese vase, standing on an ebony table near the head of the bed, was a bouquet of beautiful flowers, destined to replace the one Isabelle had already refused to receive—­its glowing tints making a strange contrast with the death-like face, which was whiter than the snowy pillow it rested on.  The prince, sitting in an arm-chair beside the bed, gazed at his unconscious son with mournful intentness, and bent down from time to time to listen at the slightly parted lips; but no fluttering breath came through them; all was still.  Never had the young duke looked handsomer.  The haughty, fierce expression, habitual with him, had given place to a serenity that was wonderfully beautiful, though so like death.  As the father contemplated the perfect face and form, so soon to crumble into dust, he forgot, in his overwhelming grief, that the soul of a demon had animated it, and he thought sorrowfully of the great name that had been revered and honoured for centuries past, but which could not go down to centuries to come.  More even than the death of his son did he mourn for the extinction of his home.

Isabelle stood at the foot of the bed, with clasped hands, praying with her whole soul for this new-found brother, who had expiated his crime with his life—­the crime of loving too much, which woman pardons so easily.

The prince, who had been for some time holding his son’s icy cold hand between both his own, suddenly thought that he could feel a slight warmth in it, and not realizing that he himself had imparted it, allowed himself to hope again.

“Will the doctor never come?” he cried impatiently; “something may yet be done; I am persuaded of it.”

Even as he spoke the door opened, and the surgeon appeared, followed by an assistant carrying a case of instruments.  He bowed to the prince, and without saying one word went straight to the bedside, felt the patient’s pulse, put his hand over his heart, and shook his head despondingly.  However, to make sure, he drew a little mirror of polished steel from his pocket, removed it from its case, and held it for a moment over the parted lips; then, upon examining its surface closely, he found that a slight dimness was visible upon it.  Surprised at this unexpected indication of life, he repeated the experiment, and again the little mirror was dimmed—­Isabelle and the prince meantime breathlessly watching every movement, and even the expression of the doctor’s face.