She stopped, gasping a little, and pressing her hand to her heart, where an iron clutch seemed arresting the circulation. A glance at her face filled Clare with a terror which he had not felt before. Partly this, partly his own sensations, told him that the poison of the plant which they had shared between them _was_ fatal--one of the swift and terrible agents of death which abound in the East--and a sense too horrible to be dwelt upon came to him, warning him that aid, to avail at all, must be summoned quickly. But how? The summit of the mountain was large, the rest of the party were far from them. He had purposely led his companion to this remote spot, where, even if he had been able to raise his voice, there was none to hear. As for leaving her, he doubted his own ability to walk ten steps. He felt sure that if he succeeded in gaining his feet he should reel and fall like a drunken man. Still, the attempt must be made, and that instantly. Every second lessened the hope of its success--with every pulse-beat he felt the awful, reeling numbness increase. How much longer he could retain his consciousness he could not tell. He saw plainly that Eleanor was losing hers. "My darling," he said, striving vainly to unclasp the arms that clung to him, "I must go--I must call assistance: this may be more serious than I thought. Try to rouse yourself, Eleanor: I must go!" Alas! it was easy to say--it was awfully impossible to do. Even when Eleanor relaxed her already half-unconscious embrace, and he strove to rise, he found that not even desperation could give the requisite power. He literally could not gain his feet. Every effort failed: he sank back hopelessly. Then he tried to raise his voice in a cry for help, but it refused to obey his bidding. He was not able to speak above a broken whisper. Finding this to be the case, he turned in an agony of despair to the girl beside him--the girl whom, with a last effort, he drew to his breast. "Eleanor," he said, "it is hopeless. If this _is_ poison we must die! Oh, my darling, can you forgive me? O my God, send us help! Eleanor, can you hear me? Eleanor, will you not speak to me?" For a minute all was silence. Then the fair head raised itself, and the lids slowly and heavily lifted from the blue, flower-like eyes. The moon, which had now risen high in the cloudless July heaven, shone full on her face as she said, "Kiss me." For the first time their lips met: when they parted both were cold. * * * * * Still clinging together, they were found. At their feet lay a fragment of the deadly-poisonous Egyptian river-plant which Marston Brent had ignorantly plucked for a lotos. CHRISTIAN REID. ECHO. FROM THE RUSSIAN OF PUSCHKTN.