But all these thoughts and ravings were destined to come to a full and sudden stop, and to be changed to others of a far different character.  This change took place when Girasole, after visiting the ladies, came, with Mrs. Willoughby, to his room.  As Dacres lay on the floor he heard the voice of the Italian, and the faint, mournful, pleading tones of a woman’s voice, and, finally, he saw the flash of a light, and knew that the Italian was coming to his room, and perhaps this woman also.  He held his breath in suspense.  What did it mean?  The tone of Girasole was not the tone of love.  The light drew nearer, and the footsteps too—­one a heavy footfall, the tread of a man; the other lighter, the step of a woman.  He waited almost breathless.

At last she appeared.  There she was before him, and with the Italian; but oh, how changed from that demon woman of his fancies, who was to appear before him with his enemy and gloat over his sufferings!  Was there a trace of a fiend in that beautiful and gentle face?  Was there thought of joy or exultation over him in that noble and mournful lady, whose melancholy grace and tearful eyes now riveted his gaze?  Where was the foul traitor who had done to death her husband and her friend?  Where was the miscreant who had sacrificed all to a guilty passion?  Not there; not with that face; not with those tears:  to think that was impossible—­it was unholy.  He might rave when he did not see her, but now that his eyes beheld her those mad fancies were all dissipated.

There was only one thing there—­a woman full of loveliness and grace, in the very bloom of her life, overwhelmed with suffering which this Italian was inflicting on her.  Why?  Could he indulge the unholy thought that the Italian had cast her off, and supplied her place with the younger beauty?  Away with such a thought!  It was not jealousy of that younger lady that Dacres perceived; it was the cry of a loving, yearning heart that clung to that other one, from whom the Italian had violently severed her.  There was no mistake as to the source of this sorrow.  Nothing was left to the imagination.  Her own words told all.

Then the light was taken away, and the lady crouched upon the floor.  Dacres could no longer see her amidst that gloom; but he could hear her; and every sob, and every sigh, and every moan went straight to his heart and thrilled through every fibre of his being.  He lay there listening, and quivering thus as he listened with a very intensity of sympathy that shut out from his mind every other thought except that of the mourning, stricken one before him.

Thus a long time passed, and the lady wept still, and other sounds arose, and there were footsteps in the house, and whisperings, and people passing to and fro; but to all these Dacres was deaf, and they caused no more impression on his senses than if they were not.  His ears and his sense of hearing existed only for these sobs and these sighs.