As for Beauvais, he, too, looked quite confounded when the mask was lifted; indeed, his expression of fear at the sight of the dead countenance seemed somewhat out of place in a physician, especially in one who, having lived through the September Massacres and the Reign of Terror, should have grown familiar with death in whatever shape it came. Wilfrid, wrapped in stupor, saw nothing of this strange perturbation on the part of Beauvais. The latter, becoming suddenly conscious of his professional duty, drew forth a penknife, severed the cord that bound Marie’s wrists, and applied his trained fingers to the pulse, while Wilfrid, dimly comprehending what the other was about, waited in a state of suspense more dreadful than any he had ever known. “She is past my art,” said Beauvais, in an awe-struck tone. He rose to his feet, and eyed Wilfrid curiously, as if wondering what effect the statement would have upon him. One might have thought that he knew something of the relationship previously existing between Wilfrid and the Princess. As Wilfrid realised the fell meaning of Beauvais’ words, there broke from him a cry of anguish; his arm relaxed its hold, and the Princess’s golden head slid gradually down on his arm to the sands again. Brought by the swift-flowing river to the Silver Strand, she must have reached it alive, for the body was too high upon the beach to have been cast there by the current. “Syncope!” murmured Beauvais. “The joy of having escaped from the waters proved too much for her, and she dropped dead upon the sands.” Wilfrid, who had never once removed his eyes from the Princess’s face, suddenly thrilled with a new sensation. For the first time in his life he found it a struggle to speak. He could get his words out only in husky, staccato tones. “Doctor ... she’s ... not ... dead ... I ... saw ... this eyelid ... quiver.” Beauvais dropped like a stone upon his knees, lifted the lid, and scrutinised the eye while holding her pulse again. “The _rigor mortis_, and yet not dead? Catalepsy, by heaven!” he cried. “She’s just rousing from it. There’s life in her. But—but, it may ebb. Brandy, hot water, chafing—without delay.” “Will it do hurt to carry her thus?” asked Wilfrid, tenderly lifting the still form. “Not at all.” “Then in heaven’s name run on first to the castle, and rouse the women-folk.” Beauvais required no second bidding; he set off with fleet feet, while Wilfrid, bearing the Princess in his arms, followed as fast as he was able. At the castle-entrance he was met by a wondering-eyed maid, who, apprised of his coming, asked no questions but at once led the way to a bed-chamber that was being rapidly prepared for the reception of the patient. Two other maids were there under the doctor’s directions, getting ready the necessary restoratives. “Now, girls, to work!” said he cheerfully. “It’s a struggle betwixt life and death, and we’re not going to let death be the winner.”