The livid
face, up turned to the moonlight, was unmistakably the face of a
dead man - it was no swoon, no deception, like Leoline's; for the
blue, ghastly paleness that marks the flight of the soul from the
body was stamped on every rigid feature. Yet, Sir Norman could
not realize it. We all know how hard it is to realize the death
of a friend from whom we have but lately parted in full health
and life, and Ormiston's death was so sudden. Why, it was not
quite two hours since they had parted in Leoline's house, and
even the plague could not carry off a victim as quickly as this.
"Ormiston! Ormiston!" he called, between grief and dismay, as he
raised him in his arms, with his hand over the stilled heart; but
Ormiston answered not, and the heart gave no pulsation beneath
his fingers. He tore open his doublet, as the thought of the
plague flashed through his mind, but no plague-spot was to be
seen, and it was quite evident, from the appearance of the face,
that he had not died of the distemper, neither was there any
wound or mark to show that he had met his end violently. Yet the
cold, white face was convulsed, as if he had died in throes of
agony, the hands were clenched, till the nails sank into the
flesh; and that was the only outward sign or token that he had
suffered in expiring.
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