I started from her.
She was gazing on me with eyes from which all fire, all meaning had
flown, and a face colorless and apathetic.
"Is there a chill in the air, dear?" she said drowsily. "I almost
shiver; have I been dreaming? Let us come in. Come; come; come in."
"You look ill, Carmilla; a little faint. You certainly must take some
wine," I said.
"Yes. I will. I'm better now. I shall be quite well in a few minutes.
Yes, do give me a little wine," answered Carmilla, as we approached
the door.
"Let us look again for a moment; it is the last time, perhaps, I shall
see the moonlight with you."
"How do you feel now, dear Carmilla? Are you really better?" I asked.
I was beginning to take alarm, lest she should have been stricken with
the strange epidemic that they said had invaded the country about us.
"Papa would be grieved beyond measure," I added, "if he thought you were
ever so little ill, without immediately letting us know. We have a very
skilful doctor near us, the physician who was with papa today."
"I'm sure he is. I know how kind you all are; but, dear child, I am
quite well again. There is nothing ever wrong with me, but a
little weakness.
"People say I am languid; I am incapable of exertion; I can scarcely walk
as far as a child of three years old: and every now and then the little
strength I have falters, and I become as you have just seen me. But
after all I am very easily set up again; in a moment I am perfectly
myself. See how I have recovered."
So, indeed, she had; and she and I talked a great deal, and very
animated she was; and the remainder of that evening passed without any
recurrence of what I called her infatuations. I mean her crazy talk and
looks, which embarrassed, and even frightened me.
But there occurred that night an event which gave my thoughts quite a
new turn, and seemed to startle even Carmilla's languid nature into
momentary energy.