He trembled all over, as a palsied man, when he touched the lock:  with stiffening hair, and staring eyes, he peeped in at that well-remembered chamber:  he entered—­and crept close up to the corpse, stealthily and dreadingly—­horror! what if she be alive still?

SHE WAS.

Not quite dead—­not quite dead yet! a gurgling in the bruised throat—­a shadowy gleam of light and life in those protruded eyes—­an irregular convulsive heaving at the chest:  she might recover! what a fearful hope:  and, if she did, would hang him—­ha! he went nearer; she was muttering something in a moanful way—­it was, “Simon did it—­Simon did it—­Simon did it—­Si—­Si—­Simon did—­” he should be found out!

Yet once again, for the last time, the long-suffering Mercy of the Lord stood like Balaam’s angel in the way, pleading with that miserable man at the bed-side of her whom he had strangled.  And even then, that Guardian Spirit came not with chiding on his tongue, but He uttered words of hope, while his eyes were streaming with sorrow and with pity.

“Most wretched of the sinful sons of men, even now there may be mercy for thee, even now plenteous forgiveness.  True, thou must die, and pay the earthly penalty of crimes like thine:  but do my righteous bidding, and thy soul shall live.  Go to that poor, suffocating creature—­cherish the spark of life—­bind up the wounds which thou hast rent, pouring in oil and wine:  rouse the house—­seek assistance—­save her life—­confess thy sin—­repent—­and though thou diest for this before the tribunal of thy fellows, God will yet be gracious—­he will raise again her whom thou hadst slain—­and will cleanse thy blood-stained soul.”

Thus in Simon’s ear spake that better conscience.

But the reprobate had cast off Faith; he could not pledge the Present for the Future; he shuddered at the sword of Justice, and would not touch the ivory sceptre of Forgiveness.  No:  he meditated horrid iteration—­and again the fiend possessed him!  What! not only lose the crock of gold, but all his own bright store? and give up every thing of this world’s good for some imaginary other, and meekly confess, and meanly repent—­and—­and all this to resuscitate that hated old aunt of his, who would hang him, and divorce him from his gold?

No! he must do the deed again—­see, she is moving—­she will recover! her chest heaves visibly—­she breathes—­she speaks—­she knows me—­ha! down—­down, I say!

Then, with deliberate and damning resolution—­to screen off temporal danger, and count his golden hoards a little longer—­that awful criminal touched the throat again:  and he turned his head away not to see that horrid face, clutched the swollen gullet with his icy hands, and strangled her once more!

“This time all is safe,” said Simon.  And having set all smooth as before, he stole up to his own chamber.

CHAPTER XXXI.