The Moor traversed the room, and, laying one hand on the surgeon's
shoulder, pointed to the door. Lucilla and Godolphin were alone.

"Oh!" said he, at last finding voice, "is it thus--thus we meet? But say
not that you are dying, Lucilla! have mercy, mercy upon your betrayer,
your----"

Here he could utter no more; he sank beside her, covering his face with
his hands, and sobbing bitterly.

The momentary lucid interval for Lucilla had passed away; the maniac
rapture returned, although in a wild and solemn shape.

"Blame not yourself," said she, earnestly; "the remorseless stars are the
sole betrayers: yet, bright and lovely as they once seemed when they
assured me of a bond between thee and me, I could not dream that their
still and shining lore could forebode such gloomy truths. Oh, Percy!
since we parted, the earth has not been as the earth to me: the Natural
has left my life; a weird and roving spirit has entered my breast, and
filled my brain, and possessed my thoughts, and moved every spring of my
existence: the sun and the air, the green herb, the freshness and glory of
the world, have been covered with a mist in which only dim shapes of dread
were shadowed forth. But thou, my love, on whose breast I have dreamed
such blessed dreams, wert not to blame. No! the power that crushes we
cannot accuse: the heavens are above the reach of our reproach; they smile
upon our agony; they bid the seasons roll on, unmoved and unsympathising,
above our broken hearts. And what has been my course since your last kiss
on these dying lips? Godolphin,"--and here Lucilla drew herself apart
from him, and writhed, as with some bitter memory,--"these lips have felt
other kisses, and these ears have drunk unhallowed sounds, and wild