At last a pistol-shot roused him.  The lady sprang up and called in despair.  A cry came back, and the lady was about to venture to the other room, when she was driven back by the stern voice of Girasole.  Then she stood for a moment, after which she knelt, and Dacres heard her voice in prayer.  The prayer was not audible, but now and then words struck upon his ears which gave the key to her other words, and he knew that it was no prayer of remorse for guilt, but a cry for help in sore affliction.

Had any thing more been needed to destroy the last vestige of Dacres’s former suspicions it was furnished by the words which he now heard.

“Oh, Heaven!” he thought; “can this woman be what I have thought her?  But if not, what a villain am I!  Yet now I must rather believe myself to be a villain than her!”

In the midst of this prayer Girasole’s voice sounded, and then Minnie’s tones came clearly audible.  The lady rose and listened, and a great sigh of relief escaped her.  Then Girasole descended the stairs, and the lady again sank upon her knees.

Thus far there seemed a spell upon Dacres; but this last incident and the clear child-voice of Minnie seemed to break it.  He could no longer keep silence.  His emotion was as intense as ever, but the bonds which had bound his lips seemed now to be loosened.

“Oh.  Arethusa!” he moaned.

At the sound of his voice Mrs. Willoughby started, and rose to her feet.  So great had been her anxiety and agitation that for some time she had not thought of another being in the room, and there had been no sound from him to suggest his existence.  But now his voice startled her.  She gave no answer, however.

“Arethusa!” repeated Dacres, gently and longingly and tenderly.

“Poor fellow!” thought Mrs. Willoughby; “he’s dreaming.”

“Arethusa! oh, Arethusa!” said Dacres once more.  “Do not keep away.  Come to me.  I am calm now.”

“Poor fellow!” thought Mrs. Willoughby.  “He doesn’t seem to be asleep.  He’s talking to me.  I really think he is.”

“Arethusa,” said Dacres again, “will you answer me one question?”

Mrs. Willoughby hesitated for a moment, but now perceived that Dacres was really speaking to her.  “He’s in delirium,” she thought.  “Poor fellow, I must humor him, I suppose.  But what a funny name to give me!”

So, after a little preparatory cough, Mrs. Willoughby said, in a low voice,

“What question?”

Dacres was silent for a few moments.  He was overcome by his emotions.  He wished to ask her one question—­the question of all questions in his mind.  Already her acts had answered it sufficiently; but he longed to have the answer in her own words.  Yet he hesitated to ask it.  It was dishonor to her to ask it.  And thus, between longing and hesitation, he delayed so long that Mrs. Willoughby imagined that he had fallen back into his dreams or into his delirium, and would say no more.