a nightingale, then . . ."

Damia paused; and gazed upwards as if in ecstasy, and it was not till a
few minutes later that she went on, with a changed expression in her
face: "Then my son's widow, Mary, would be hatched out of a serpent's egg
and would creep a writhing asp... Great gods! the ravens! What can they
mean? They come again. Air, air! Wine! I cannot--I am choking--take
it away!--To-morrow--to-day... Everything is going; do you see--do you
feel? It is all black--no, red; and now black again. Everything is
sinking; hold me, save me; the floor is going from under me.--Where is
Porphyrius? Where is my son?--My feet are so cold; rub them. It is the
water! rising--it is up to my knees. I am sinking--help! save me!
help!" The dying woman fought with her arms as if she were drowning; her
cries for help grew fainter, her head drooped on her laboring chest, and
in a few minutes she had breathed her last in her grandchild's arms, and
her restless, suffering soul was free.

Never before had Gorgo seen death. She could not persuade herself that
the heart which had been so cold for others, but had throbbed so warmly
and tenderly for her, was now stilled for ever; that the spirit which,
even in sleep, had never been at rest, had now found eternal peace. The
slave-woman had hastily taken her place, had closed the dead woman's eyes
and mouth, and done all she could to diminish the horror of the scene,
and the terrible aspect of the dead in the sight of the girl who had been
her one darling. But Gorgo had remained by her side, and, while she did
everything in her power to revive the stiffening body, the overwhelming
might of Death had come home to her with appalling clearness. She felt
the limbs of one she had loved growing cold and rigid under her hands,
and her spirit rose in obstinate rebellion against the idea that
annihilation stood between her and the woman who had so amply filled