After all, there are few more comfortable places than an inn; not a huge London hotel, where you are known as No. 48, and have to lock the door of your cell when you come out of it, and deliver up your key to the warder in the hall; but an old-fashioned country establishment where they cook your breakfast exactly as you like it, and give you sound ale and a four-poster.  At least, so thought Arthur, as he sat in the private parlour smoking his pipe and reflecting on the curious vicissitudes of existence.  Now, here he was, with all the hopes and interests of his life utterly changed in a single space of six-and-twenty hours.  Why, six-and-twenty hours ago, he had never met his respected guardian, nor Sir John and Lady Bellamy, nor Philip and his daughter.  He could hardly believe that it was only that morning that he had first seen Angela.  It seemed weeks ago, and, if time could have been measured on a new principle, by events and not by minutes, it would have been weeks.  The wheel of life, he thought, revolves with a strange irregularity.  For months and years it turns slowly and steadily under the even pressure of monotonous events.  But, on some unexpected day, a tide comes rushing down the stream of being, and spins it round at speed; and then tears onward to the ocean called the Past, leaving its plaything to creak and turn, to turn and creak, or wrecked perhaps and useless.

Thinking thus, Arthur made his way to bed.  The excitement of the day had wearied him, and for a while he slept soundly, but, as the fatigue of the body wore off, the activity of his mind asserted itself, and he began to dream vague, happy dreams of Angela, that by degrees took shape and form, till they stood out clear before the vision of his mind.  He dreamt that he and Angela were journeying, two such happy travellers, through the green fields in summer, till by-and-by they came to the dark entrance of a wood, into which they plunged, fearing nothing.  Thicker grew the overshadowing branches, and darker grew the path, and now they journeyed lover-wise, with their arms around each other.  But, as they passed along, they came to a place where the paths forked, and here he stooped to kiss her.  Already he could feel the thrill of her embrace, when she was swept from him by an unseen force, and carried down the path before them, leaving him rooted where he was.  But still he could trace her progress as she went, wringing her hands in sorrow; and presently he saw the form of Lady Bellamy, robed as an Egyptian sorceress, and holding a letter in her hand, which she offered to Angela, whispering in her ear.  She took it, and then in a second the letter turned to a great snake, with George’s head, that threw its coils around her and struck at her with its fangs.  Next, the darkness of night rushed down upon the scene, and out of the darkness came wild cries and mocking laughter, and the choking sounds of death.  And his senses left him.