Whilst these violent emotions were convulsing the bosoms of all around, the old Duke knelt by the side of Elvira, gazing upon her with the most intense anxiety. Her gentle and feminine nature had been overpowered at seeing the blood of Claudia, and she still lay insensible, looking more exquisitely lovely than fancy can conceive. The beauty of Elvira was of the most soft and feminine description; long silken eyelashes shaded her dark hazel eyes, and gave them an expression more voluptuous than brilliant, whilst nothing could exceed the delicacy of her complexion, or the beauty of her full rosy lips. The figure of Elvira might not have served as the model of a courageous heroine, but it would have suited admirably for an Houri; and lovely as she always was, she had perhaps never looked more so than at this moment, when the returning blood softly retinted her cheeks, and her eyes gradually unclosed. Lord Edmund gazed upon her, till, maddened by the thought that he must lose her forever, he could no longer endure his own sensations, and, darting amongst the crowd, he endeavoured to fly from the world and from himself.
The Duke, on the contrary, saw the recovery of his daughter with unalloyed transport, for though he loved Edmund, and wished to have him for a son-in-law, he was by no means insensible to the prospect of seeing his daughter a Queen, and his breast throbbed with violent emotions, to which it had long been a stranger.
In the meantime the Mummy had stalked solemnly through the city, urged more by instinct than design; the mist that still hung over him, making him seem like one wandering in a dream. Yet still he advanced; his path, like that of a destroying angel, spreading consternation as he went, and all he met flying horror-stricken from his sight: many, however, when the monster had passed, crept softly back to gaze after him, and amongst this number was Mrs. Russel, in whose breast curiosity, that vice of low minds, reigned predominant.
The moment their balloon fell, Mrs. Russel, attended by her faithful Abelard, had hurried home, leaving Clara in the care of Father Murphy; lest, as she said, in the confusion that might ensue, the servants might be induced to leave the Duke’s house, and some evil disposed personages might strip it of its contents. Urged by this prudent motive, Mrs. Russel hastened home, and finding all safe, was just about to retire to rearrange her disordered dress, when one of the servants rushed into the room with the account of a fearful spirit having been seen in the Strand, whose mysterious appearance, coupled with the accident that had happened to the Queen, seemed to portend some dreadful calamity which was about to fall upon the country.
“What is it like?” asked Mrs. Russel; “have you seen it, Evelina?”
“Oh yes, ma’am!” cried the panting girl; “its eyes flare like fire, and it stares so wildly round it! and as it went along, it saw a dead cat lying in the street: and it knelt down and took the creature up, and kissed it, and lamented over it in such a strange way, and in such a strange language! I never heard anything like it in my life.”
“Oh, dear! I should like to see it!” cried Mrs. Russel, flying to the door, and holding it half open to secure a retreat in case of necessity. Just as she reached the street, however, fate, as though willing to gratify her curiosity, occasioned the Mummy to turn back; and with that kind of half pleasure and half pain, with which the good people of England sometimes delight to gaze upon anything horrible, Mrs. Russel continued to look as it rapidly approached her, till, as it reached the door, to her infinite horror it stalked towards it. Awestruck and trembling, Mrs. Russel retreated. The Mummy followed her. He stretched his hand out to her. She shrunk back aghast from his touch. “Lead on!” cried he with a voice of thunder. Mrs. Russel could bear no more, and she fled screaming to her own apartment, where her lover was awaiting her return, impatient to delight her attentive ears with a few more of his poetical effusions.
Absorbed as Abelard was, however, he was roused by this unexpected intrusion, and the blood ran chilly through his veins, as he saw the tall majestic figure of Cheops stride across the apartment. His athletic stature, his dark swarthy complexion, and his strongly marked features, aided by the fearful lustre of his piercing eyes, gave to his figure, swathed as it yet was in the vestments of the grave, a supernatural grandeur that thrilled through every nerve of Abelard’s frame, and he shrank back with horror as his fearful visitant stalked past him.
Cheops saw his terror and smiled in proud disdain as he threw himself upon a couch, placed near a window looking upon the garden, which, as we have before stated, shelved down to the river. There he lay, his eyes fixed upon the majestic Thames, whilst Abelard and Mrs. Russel gazed with trembling limbs and pallid lips at the strange intruder, without daring either to approach or disturb him.
“Thus have I watched the Nile,” said Cheops, his awful voice sounding as from the tomb, “whilst the gently rising waters have gradually swelled into the flood which was to pour joy and plenty over the land:—and thus, too, have I lain, gazing upon its streams, when, the purpose of all-bounteous Nature having been fulfilled, it has sunk back, slowly retiring to its natural bed. But, oh! how different were the feelings that then throbbed in
