More even than the death of his son
did he mourn for the extinction of his home.
Isabelle stood at the foot of the bed, with clasped hands, praying with
her whole soul for this new-found brother, who had expiated his crime
with his life--the crime of loving too much, which woman pardons so
easily.
The prince, who had been for some time holding his son's icy cold hand
between both his own, suddenly thought that he could feel a slight
warmth in it, and not realizing that he himself had imparted it, allowed
himself to hope again.
"Will the doctor never come?" he cried impatiently; "something may yet
be done; I am persuaded of it."
Even as he spoke the door opened, and the surgeon appeared, followed by
an assistant carrying a case of instruments. He bowed to the prince, and
without saying one word went straight to the bedside, felt the patient's
pulse, put his hand over his heart, and shook his head despondingly.
However, to make sure, he drew a little mirror of polished steel from
his pocket, removed it from its case, and held it for a moment over the
parted lips; then, upon examining its surface closely, he found that
a slight dimness was visible upon it. Surprised at this unexpected
indication of life, he repeated the experiment, and again the little
mirror was dimmed--Isabelle and the prince meantime breathlessly
watching every movement, and even the expression of the doctor's face.
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