'They call death a sleep; but on her face there is
no death!'
The night grew on. The women who were in attendance entered the room
about midnight, wondering that their assistance had not yet been
required. They beheld the solemn, unruffled composure on the girl's
wasted face; the rapt attention of Numerian, as he ever preserved the
same attitude by her side; and went out again softly without uttering a
word, even in a whisper. There was something dread and impressive in
the very appearance of this room, where Death, that destroys, was in
mortal conflict with Youth and Beauty, that adorn, while the eyes of one
old man watched in loneliness the awful progress of the strife.
Morning came, and still there was no change. Once, when the lamp that
lit the room was fading out as the dawn appeared, Numerian had risen and
looked close on his daughter's face--he thought at that moment that her
features moved; but he saw that the flickering of the dying light on
them had deceived him; the same stillness was over her.
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