"Stay," she cried, exerting her feeble strength to retain him, and becoming white as ashes, "abide and hear me. You have killed me, I feel, by your cruelty. I am sinking fast--dying. I, who loved you, only you; yes, one besides--my brother, and you have slain _him_. Your hands are dripping in his blood, and I have kissed them--have clasped them! And now," continued she, with an energy that shook Sir Reginald, "I hate you--I renounce you--forever! May my dying words ring in your ears on your death-bed, for that hour _will_ come. You cannot shun _that_. Then think of _him_! think of _me_!" "Away!" interrupted Sir Reginald, endeavoring to shake her off. "I will _not_ away! I will cling to you--will curse you. My unborn child shall live to curse you--to requite you--to visit my wrongs on you and yours. Weak as I am, you shall not cast me off. You shall learn to fear even _me_." "I fear nothing living, much less a frantic woman." "Fear the _dead_, then." There was a struggle--a blow--and the wretched lady sank, shrieking, upon the floor. Convulsions seized her. A mother's pains succeeded fierce and fast. She spoke no more, but died within the hour, giving birth to a female child. Eleanor Rookwood became her father's idol--her father's bane. All the love he had to bestow was centred in her. She returned it not. She fled from his caresses. With all her mother's beauty, she had all her father's pride. Sir Reginald's every thought was for his daughter--for her aggrandizement. In vain. She seemed only to endure him, and while his affection waxed stronger, and entwined itself round her alone, she withered beneath his embraces as the shrub withers in the clasping folds of the parasite plant. She grew towards womanhood. Suitors thronged around her--gentle and noble ones. Sir Reginald watched them with a jealous eye. He was wealthy, powerful, high in royal favor; and could make his own election. He did so. For the first time, Eleanor promised obedience to his wishes. They accorded with her own humor. The day was appointed. It came. But with it came not the bride. She had fled, with the humblest and the meanest of the pretenders to her hand--with one upon whom Sir Reginald supposed she had not deigned to cast her eyes. He endeavored to forget her, and, to all outward seeming, was successful in the effort. But he felt that the curse was upon him; the undying flame scorched his heart. Once, and once only, they met again, in France, whither she had wandered. It was a dread encounter--terrible to both; but most so to Sir Reginald. He spoke not of her afterwards.