“Ah--death itself is slow When death itself is wooed-- When death itself is peace. Leonora--fare-thee-well!” “Great Heaven!--can I believe my senses?” Again the solemn voices of the monks arose-- “Miserere for him whose death is nigh; Who from life and its joys must be quickly hurled; Miserere for one who, a moment more, Must bid farewell to this dreary world.” Again his voice arose; his last words for her-- “Leonora--Leonora, a last farewell.” And again she looked on the ring as she thought, “her love was as great as his.” Then suddenly she heard footsteps, and she shrank into the shadow of the frowning tower. The count passed over the very spot from which she had just fled. Then he turned and said to some person unseen by Leonora-- “Thou markest my will; when the day breaks--the scaffold for the son--the pile for the mother.” Cruel, implacable as he was, he even blushed in the dark night as conscience whispered to him that this scaffold and this pile were but a poor return for his life, twice given him. But he had gone too far to recede; and, with a curse, he cried, “‘Twas fatality, and Leonora.” Then he asked himself where she was--where she had hidden herself, and, in an agony of hot, unrestrained passion, he cried out, “Leonora, Leonora, where art thou?” “She is here!” As he started at her voice she came forward, pale and trembling, from the shadow. Asking himself how she could have reached the terrace, after an effort he said, “What wouldst thou?” “Canst thou ask me? His life.” “_His_ life! Ask me for mine own as well.” “See, I kneel to thee.” “Thou art mad.” “Nay, see how humble I am; look on me--at thy very feet.” “Look in my face; dost thou see pity there?” “I cannot look upon thy face. Pity--I can say no more;--pity! Hath he not twice saved thy life? Wilt thou not render back half thy debt? Kill me if thou wilt, for I heard thee say ’twas by me thou art what thou art. Kill me, yet spare him.” “As thou speakest, thou dost but ensure his fate. I would I could make him suffer a hundred deaths. As ardently thou lovest so fiercely do I hate. Let go your hold. Nothing can purchase his life.” “No price?” “No price.” “Yes, there is one, and I do offer it to thee--myself.” “What hast thou said?” “What I do mean--myself.” “I dream.” “Nay, open his prison-door, and I am thine.” “Wilt thou swear it?” “By my dead mother’s name!” “Enough--he is free.” He strode quickly to the door of the tower, and spoke rapidly to the gaoler within it; but she had had time to offer herself a sacrifice to her honest love. She took the ring from off her finger, opened a little receptacle in it, removed from it a small grey pellet, and swallowed it. “Thou shalt have a dead bride,” she whispered. When he again turned towards her, her hands were pressed to her sides.