The rays of the setting sun, fitfully flickered on the sheet, over whose surface, light shadows swiftly played, ever and anon glancing on the shorn head of the kneeling friar. His intelligent face was expressive of firm belief. His eye turned reverentially to heaven, as in deep and sonorous accents, he implored forgiveness for the sufferer, for the sins committed during her mortal coil. Acmé sat up in her bed. On her countenance, calm devotion seemed to usurp the place of earthly affections, and earthly passions. The soul was preparing for its upward flight. Delmé led away the sorrowing husband, and the minister of Christ was left alone, to hear the contrite outpourings of a weak departing sinner. The priest left the chamber, but spoke not, either to the physician, or the expecting brothers. His impassioned glance belonged to another and a higher world. He made one low obeisance--his robes swept the passage quickly--and the Franciscan friar sought his lonely cell to reflect on death. The brothers re-entered. They found Acmé in the attitude in which they had left her--her features wearing an expression at once radiant and resigned. But--as her eye met George's--as she saw the havoc grief had already made--the feelings of the woman resumed the mastery. She extended her arms--she brought his lip to hers--as if she would have made _that_ its resting place for ever. Alas! an inward pang told her to be brief. She drew away her face, crimsoned with her passion's flush--tremblingly grasped his hand---and, with voice choked by emotion, gave her last farewell. "Giorgio, my dearest! my own! I shall soon join my parents. I feel this--and my mother's words, as she met me by the olive tree, ring in my ear. "She told me I should die thus; but she told me, too, that I should kill the one dearest to me on earth. Thank God! this cannot be--for I know my life to be ebbing fast. "Dearest I do not mourn for me too much. You may find another Acmé--as true. But, oh! sometimes--yes! even when your hearts cling fondly together, as ours were wont to do--think of your own Acmé--who loved you first--and only--and does it now! oh! how well! Giorgio! dear! dearest! adieu! My feet are _so, so_ cold--and ice seems"-- A change shadowed the face, as from some corporeal pang. She tried to raise an ebony cross hung round her neck. In the effort, her features became convulsed--and George heard a low gurgling in the throat, as from suffocation. Ah! that awful precursor of "the first dark hour of nothingness." George Delmé sprang to his feet, and was supporting her head, when the physician grasped his arm. "Stop! stop! you are preventing"---- The lower lip quivered--and drooped--slightly! very slightly! The head fell back. One long deep drawn sigh shook the exhausted frame. The face seemed to become fixed. Doctor Pormont extended his hand, and silently closed those dark fringed lids. The cold finger, with its harsh touch, once more brought consciousness.