“Somewhat—­it is my head to-night, however, that troubles me chiefly.  Be good enough to press my temples.  Ah, that is great relief!  You are very kind, Miss Monfort; yet, in reviewing the past, I hope you will not find that I have been wanting to you in my turn.  I trust we shall part in peace and meet hereafter as friends.  But you do not answer me.”

“Pardon me, I was thinking.  This is a crisis, you know—­this night decides my fate for good or ill, all rests with merciful God!”

“Yes, all—­of ourselves we are helpless, of course.  It is a comfort to me, I confess, as I lie here, to feel that I have never willingly injured a fellow-being; to think that I—­but, bless my soul, Miss Monfort, you must not hold me down in that way! you would not, I trust.  But even if you did—­no key this time, the door is fast without!”

“Oh, not for worlds! be still, the pain will pass.  I have the gift, you know, of soothing physical suffering.  There, rest, you must not stir; give yourself up to me, if you can—­slumber will come.”

“It must not come—­see, we are all alone!”

Her glazing eye—­her slower breathing began already to attest the influence of the electric fluid, so potent in my veins, so wanting in her own, both from temperament and disease, yet she resisted bravely and long, and, even when her limbs were powerless, her spirit rebelled against me in murmured words of defiant opposition; but this, too, yielded finally to silence and to stupor; and she slept the deep, calm, unmistakable slumber caused by magnetism.

Then, again, I went through the experiment of the preceding night, and strove to awaken her.

“Get up,” I said, and yet without willing that she should do so.  “Mrs. Raymond is here to show you her marriage-dress, and Mr. Bainrothe calls.”

“Tell them to let me sleep; don’t—­don’t—­disturb me.  I am so happy—­so peaceful.  It is sweet, too, to think that she will be married at last.  Poor thing! it was no fault of hers, though—­no fault.  A young actress is exposed to so many temptations, and it was better so—­Harry Raymond’s mistress.”

That secret would never have escaped her devoted lips had she been able to retain it.

As carefully as the eyes of the dead are closed, I drew down her gaping lids, and turned away.  As I did so, the clock struck eight.  Fatima never listened more anxiously to the toll of parting time than I did that night; but, alas for me! no sister Anne kept watch on the tower; no brother hastened to arrest the sword.  I was deserted by all save God and desperation.  One hour comprised my fate!  Very quietly I closed the door between Mrs. Clayton’s room and my own.  The bolt was on the other side, so I could not secure my privacy, even for a moment, should she chance to wake, or should Mrs. Raymond or Dinah return unexpectedly.  As rapidly as I could, I altered my dress—­this time above my clothes—­threw on the black silk frock and mantilla prepared for me on shipboard, tied a dark veil over my head, an old woolen scarf about my throat, provided for Ernie’s sore-throat and croup, and stood equipped for my enterprise.