The Leaguer of Lathom by W. Harrison Ainsworth

On examining the wound, he found—as indeed was apparent—that it bled internally, and his grave looks announced that he deemed it fatal.

“Is she gone?” inquired the countess, in broken accents.

“No, madam,” replied Holbrook. “I can revive her, but it will only be for a short time.”

He then poured a few drops from a phial upon a small piece of linen, and applied it to her lips.

Ere long, to the amazement of all the observers, who had watched the result of the experiment with the utmost anxiety, symptoms of returning animation were perceptible.

Opening her eyes, the ill-fated damsel fixed them upon the countess, who was still standing near her.

At first, she did not seem to comprehend her situation, but soon the terrible truth rushed upon her.

Slightly raising herself, she gazed earnestly and inquiringly at the surgeon, whom she recognised, and finding he did not speak, said in a low, but firm voice:

“Tell me! tell me truly! Am I wounded to death?”

“You are,” he replied.

Then, without manifesting any fear, she asked in the same firm tone:

“How long have I to live? Do not deceive me.”

“You may live half an hour—not longer,” was the answer, pronounced very solemnly. “Drink from this phial,” he added, presenting it to her. “‘Tis a sovereign elixir, and will help to sustain you.”

She eagerly swallowed a few drops, and returned the phial to him.

“That is all I can do, madam,” observed Holbrook to the countess, as he stepped back and quitted the room.

Forcibly repressing the emotion, by which she was well-nigh overcome, the countess bent down, and kissed the brow of the dying maiden.

“Oh! how can I thank you! You have rendered me many great services—but this is the greatest of all,” she cried, in a voice broken by emotion.

“It is the last service I shall ever render your ladyship!” replied Gertrude. “But I have done no more than my duty—no more than any of your soldiers would have done for you! There is not a single person in this castle, who would not gladly have sacrificed his life to save yours! Farewell, madam—farewell for ever! At this moment, when all else has become indifferent to me, I am gladdened by the thought that you will triumph over your enemies. Think of me, I pray you, in the hour of victory!”

“Doubt it not,” cried the countess. “But for you I should never have gained a victory.”

“Enough,” rejoined Gertrude. “I shall now die content.”

She then looked at the young ladies Stanley, who were gazing tearfully on the scene, and signed to them to come to her.

“You know how dearly I have loved you,” she exclaimed, holding out her arms to them. “Kiss me all of you, I entreat you! I cannot press you to my breast as I long to do, but while life lasts you will be next my heart.”

Approaching singly, each tenderly embraced her.

As they withdrew, Archdeacon Rutter came forward, and said:

“You have now done with the world, and must turn your thoughts to Heaven.”

“I have not quite done with the world, dear and reverend sir,” she rejoined. “There is one other person to whom I would bid farewell, ere I depart.”

“You mean Captain Standish,” observed the countess. “You would see him alone?”

“I would,” replied the dying damsel.

“I will send him to you instantly,” said the countess.

And signing to the others to follow her, she quitted the room.

In another moment Standish entered, evidently quite overcome by grief.

“Can you forgive me?” he cried, taking the hand she extended to him, and pressing it to his lips.

“I have not waited for this moment to forgive you,” she rejoined, fixing her gaze tenderly upon him. “I know you have preferred another, and when I first made the discovery I thought my heart would break—nay, I even meditated revenge, and there were moments when I was so maddened by jealousy that I could have stabbed my rival. But those feelings have long since ceased. I love you still—but it is with a holy, sisterly love. You cannot doubt what I say, since I tell it you with my dying breath.”