During the silence that
ensued, a sharp tinkle might be heard as the jeweled head of the
riding-whip, snapped by a convulsive movement, fell at Flora's feet.
It _was_ weak in her to betray such loss of self-command, but,
remember, the blow came unexpectedly. She saw the edifice she had
plotted, and toiled, and risked so much to build, ruined and shattered
to its foundation-stone. How many whispers, and smiles, and eloquent
glances had been lavished, only to end in this Pavia, where not even
honor was saved from the utter wreck!
Was not the perfect waxen mask of the first Napoleon shivered in that
terrible abdication-night at Fontainebleau? Where was Cleopatra's
queenly dignity when she heard that Antony had rejoined Octavia?
"Why has he gone? What called him back?"
Her voice had lost the clear ring of silver, and sounded dull and flat,
like base metal.
"Constance Brandon wrote to tell him she was dying. Do you wonder that
he went to her?"
A passing cloud of horror swept across Flora's pale face; but after it
broke forth a gleam of strange, ferocious exultation, which stifled the
rising pity in her hearer's breast, and changed it into contempt.
"I don't believe it," she cried, passionately.
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