Though aimed by an uncertain hand, the poniard had answered but too well the purpose of its employer. The wounds were mortal, and Antonia was conscious that she never could recover. Yet the few moments which remained for her were moments of happiness. The concern expressed upon Lorenzo’s countenance, the frantic fondness of his complaints, and his earnest enquiries respecting her wounds, convinced her beyond a doubt that his affections were her own. She would not be removed from the vaults, fearing lest motion should only hasten her death; and she was unwilling to lose those moments which she passed in receiving proofs of Lorenzo’s love, and assuring him of her own. She told him that had she still been undefiled she might have lamented the loss of life; but that deprived of honour and branded with shame, death was to her a blessing: she could not have been his wife, and that hope being denied her, she resigned herself to the grave without one sigh of regret. She bad him take courage, conjured him not to abandon himself to fruitless sorrow, and declared that she mourned to leave nothing in the whole world but him. While every sweet accent increased rather than lightened Lorenzo’s grief, she continued to converse with him till the moment of dissolution.