“No, indeed, Gertrude, you have deceived yourself; no misfortune has happened, and if I am gloomy, the source of all my troubles is within.  Leave me, Gertrude, for the present.  As to the other matter, the departure of Mademoiselle de Barras, we can talk of that tomorrow—­now I cannot; so let us part.  Go to your room; good night.”

She was withdrawing, and he added, in a subdued tone—­“Gertrude, I am very glad you came—­very glad.  Pray for me tonight.”

He had followed her a few steps toward the door, and now stopped short, turned about, and walked dejectedly back again—­

“I am right glad she came,” he muttered, as soon as he was once more alone.  “Wynston is provoking and fiery, too.  Were I, in my present mood, to seek a tete-a-tete with him, who knows what might come of it?  Blood; my own heart whispers—­blood!  I’ll not trust myself.”

He strode to the study door, locked it, and taking out the key, shut it in the drawer of one of the cabinets.

“Now it will need more than accident or impulse to lead me to him.  I cannot go, at least, without reflection, without premeditation.  Avaunt, fiend.  I have baffled you.”

He stood in the center of the room, cowering and scowling as he said this, and looked round with a glance half-defiant, half-fearful, as if he expected to see some dreadful form in the dusky recesses of the desolate chamber.  He sat himself by the smouldering fire, in somber and agitated rumination.  He was restless; he rose again, unbuckled his sword, which he had not loosed since evening, and threw it hastily into a corner.  He looked at his watch, it was half-past twelve; he glanced at the door, and thence at the cabinet in which he had placed the key; then he turned hastily, and sate down again.  He leaned his elbows on his knees, and his chin upon his clenched hand; still he was restless and excited.  Once more he arose, and paced up and down.  He consulted his watch again; it was now but a quarter to one.

Sir Wynston’s man having received the letters, and his master’s permission to retire to rest, got into his bed, and was soon beginning to dose.  We have already mentioned that his and Sir Wynston’s apartments were separated by a small dressing room, so that any ordinary noise or conversation could be heard but imperfectly from one to the other.  The servant, however, was startled by a sound of something falling on the floor of his master’s apartment, and broken to pieces by the violence of the shock.  He sate up in his bed, listened, and heard some sentences spoken vehemently, and gabbled very fast.  He thought he distinguished the words “wretch” and “God”; and there was something so strange in the tone in which they were spoken, that the man got up and stole noiselessly through the dressing room, and listened at the door.