“How and when did this happen?”

Heliobas told him in as few words as possible.  Dr. Morini then bent over Zara’s lifeless form, and examined her features attentively.  He laid his car against her heart and listened.  Finally, he caught sight of the round, lustreless pebble hanging at her neck suspended by its strings of pearls.  Very gently he moved this aside; looked, and beckoned us to come and look also.  Exactly on the spot where the electric stone had rested, a small circular mark, like a black bruise, tainted the fair soft skin—­a mark no larger than a small finger-ring.

“Death by electricity,” said Dr. Morini quietly.  “Must have been instantaneous.  The lightning-flash, or downward electric current, lodged itself here, where this mark is, and passed directly through the heart.  Perfectly painless, but of course fatal.  She has been dead some time.”

And, replacing the stone ornament in its former position, he stepped back with a suggestive glance at Father Paul.  I listened and saw—­ but I was in a state of stupefaction.  Dead?  My beautiful, gay, strong Zara dead?  Impossible!  I knelt beside her; I called her again and again by every endearing and tender name I could think of; I kissed her sweet lips.  Oh, they were cold as ice, and chilled my blood!  As one in a dream, I saw Heliobas advance; he kissed her forehead and mouth; he reverently unclasped the pearls from about her throat, and with them took off the electric stone.  Then Father Paul stepped slowly forward, and in place of that once brilliant gem, now so dim and destitute of fire, he laid a crucifix upon the fair and gentle breast, motionless for ever.

At sight of this sacred symbol, some tense cord seemed to snap in my brain, and I cried out wildly: 

“Oh, no, no!  Not that!  That is for the dead; Zara is not dead!  It is all a mistake—­a mistake!  She will be quite well presently; and she will smile and tell you how foolish you were to think her dead!  Dead?  She cannot be dead; it is impossible—­quite impossible!” And I broke into a passion of sobs and tears.

Very gently and kindly Dr. Morini drew me away, and by dint of friendly persuasion, in which there was also a good deal of firm determination, led me into the hall, where he made me swallow a glass of wine.  As I could not control my sobs, he spoke with some sternness: 

“Mademoiselle, you can do no good by giving way in this manner.  Death is a very beautiful and solemn thing, and it is irreverent to show unseemly passion in such a great Presence.  You loved your friend—­let it be a comfort to you that she died painlessly.  Control yourself, in order to assist in rendering her the last few gentle services necessary; and try to console the desolate brother, who looks in real need of encouragement.”

These last words roused me.  I forced back my tears, and dried my eyes.

“I will, Dr. Morini,” I said, in a trembling voice.  “I am ashamed to be so weak.  I know what I ought to do, and I will do it.  You may trust me.”