"No," interrupted Lucretia. "No; she came into the room, she kissed me
here,--on the brow that even then was meditating murder. The kiss
burned; it burns still,--it eats into the brain like remorse. But I did
not yield; I read again her false father's protestation of love; I read
again the letter announcing the discovery of my son, and remorse lay
still. I went forth as before, I stole into her chamber, I had the fatal
crystal in my hand--"

"Well, well!"

"And suddenly there came the fearful howl of a dog, and the dog's fierce
eyes glared on me. I paused, I trembled; Helen started, woke, called
aloud. I turned and fled. The poison was not given."

Varney ground his teeth. "But this illness! Ha! the effect, perhaps, of
the drops administered two nights ago."

"No; this illness has no symptoms like those the poison should bequeath,-
-it is but natural fever, a shock on the nerves; she told me she had been
wakened by the dog's howl, and seen a dark form, like a thing from the
grave, creeping along the floor. But she is really ill; send for the
physician; there is nothing in her illness to betray the hand of man. Be
it as it may,--that kiss still burns; I will stir in this no more. Do
what you will yourself!"

"Fool, fool!" exclaimed Varney, almost rudely grasping her arm.
"Remember how much we have yet to prepare for, how much to do,--and the
time so short! Percival's return,--perhaps this Greville's arrival.
Give me the drugs; I will mix them for her in the potion the physician
sends. And when Percival returns,--his Helen dead or dying,--I will