That morning her appearance had been such that the physician had been deceived by it, and had pronounced her cold.

Yet now there were these signs of life.

What could it portend but that the effects of the poison were passing off and that she was recovering?
In the wild madness of joy that sent the blood drumming and beating through my brain, my first impulse was to run for help.

Then I bethought me of the closed doors, and I realised that no matter how I shouted none would hear me.

I must succour her myself as best I could, and meanwhile she must be protected from the chill air of that December night in that church that was colder than the tomb.