At the time when the clenching commenced, the vision was faint, as if she were looking into a dark room.  But, as the struggle proceeded, the room seemed to be gradually lighted up for her; and every grapple, every blow, every facial contortion of this horrible contest, were plainly visible.  And yet she was not in the room, but lying in her little bed, bound as in the awful dream of the clashing orbs.  She knew she was there, and yet she felt that her eyes, all her faculties of observation, had been somehow transferred to her father’s room, and that she was actually seeing and hearing the commission of a murder there.

She tried to cry aloud, but her jaws were closed.  She would have risen, entered the room, and thrown herself between the frenzied men, but neither hand nor foot could she move.  Her body was fastened to the bed as if with adamantine chains, while her mind and soul were the voiceless spectators of a tragedy of which she knew that she was the cause.  She could not even open her eyes.  If she could have loosed but a muscle from the rigidity of the trance, she knew that her whole frame would be relaxed in an instant.  Then she would have bounded—­oh! with what speed—­into the other room, where her immortal part was helplessly watching the conflict, and interceded at the risk of her life.  Alas!  Prometheus was tied to the rock not more firmly than she to that bed of anguish!

The struggle went on.  The inventor, though past the prime of life, and worn down by excessive thought, had some strength left.  Its duration was brief; but it was not to be despised while it lasted.  He grasped the tall figure of Marcus Wilkeson by the neck with one arm, and with the other struck dozens of blows upon his face and chest.  The comparative youth and freshness of Marcus were unable to free him from the strong hold of this vigorous old man.  Pangs of terror shot through the heart of the poor girl as she saw that her father was about to become a murderer.  Then the tide of fortune changed.  Marcus, bruised and black in the face, and panting with exertion, released himself from the inventor’s clutch, and, in turn, caught him by the throat.  With his long arm he held the furious old man at a safe distance.  The unhappy girl was now agonized with fears for her father’s life.

“This is madness.  Let us stop it.”  Thus Pet heard Marcus Wilkeson say, in panting accents.

What demoniac spell was it that prevented her from shrieking—­“Stop it.  In God’s name, father, stop?”

“Never!” said the undaunted old man.  “Never, till I have thrown you headlong down stairs!  Liar!  Villain!”

With that, Pet saw her father hurl himself, with the ferocity of a tiger, on Marcus Wilkeson.  Such was the suddenness and impetuosity of the movement, that Marcus was pushed back several feet toward the door, from the centre of the room, where the most obstinate part of the struggle had taken place.

But the old man’s supremacy was short lived.  The younger and stronger man suddenly stooped, caught the inventor with both hands under the arms, and thrust him toward the corner occupied by the mysterious machine.  The inventor would have fallen on it, and perhaps have been instantly killed by contact with some portion of the brass or iron work, but for the interposition of the screen.  This broke his fall.  He scrambled to his feet, full of rage, and foaming at the mouth.