die if you do!" Oswald felt as if his beloved were accusing him of some crime which she had all at once suspected: believing himself hated--scorned--he fell on his knees, with despairing submission which suggested to Corinne the idea of profiting by this mistake, and she commanded him to leave her forever, as if he had in truth been guilty. Speechless with wonder, he would have obeyed, when Thérésina sobbed forth: "Oh, my Lord! will you, then, desert my dear lady? She has sent every one away, and would fain banish me too: for she has caught the infectious fever!" These words instantly explained the affecting stratagem of Corinne; and Oswald clasped her to his heart, with a transport of tenderness, such as he had never before experienced. In vain she repelled him; in vain she reproached Thérésina. Oswald bade the good creature withdraw, and lavished his tearful kisses on the face of his adored. "Now, now," he cried, "thou shalt not die without me: if the fatal poison be in thy veins, at least, thank Heaven, I breathe it in thine arms."--"Dear, cruel Oswald!" she sighed, "to what tortures you condemn me! O God! since he will not live without me, let not my better angel perish! no, save him, save him!" Here her strength was lost, and, for eight days, she remained in the greatest danger. In the midst of her delirium, she would cry: "Keep Oswald from me! let him not come here! never tell him where I am!" When her reason returned, she gazed on him, murmuring: "Oswald! in death as in life you are with me; we shall be reunited." When she perceived how pale he was, a deadly terror seized her, and she called to his aid the physicians, who had given her a strong proof of devotion in never having abandoned her. Oswald constantly held her burning hands in his, and finished the cup of which she had drunk; in fact, with such avidity did he share her perils, that she herself ceased at last to combat this passionate self-sacrifice. Leaning her head upon his arm, she resigned herself to his will. The beings who so love that they feel the impossibility of living without each other, may well attain the noble and tender intimacy which puts all things in common, even death itself.[1] Happily, Lord Nevil did not take the disease through which he so carefully nursed Corinne. She recovered; but another malady penetrated yet deeper into her breast. The generosity of her lover, alas! redoubled the attachment she had borne him. [1] M. Dubreuil, a very skilful French physician, fell ill of a fatal distemper. His popularity filled the sick room with visitants. Calling to his intimate friend, M. Péméja, as eminent a man as himself, he said, "Send away all these people; you know my fever is contagious; no one but yourself ought to be with me now." Happy the friend who ever heard such words! Péméja died fifteen days after his heart's brother. CHAPTER IV.