There came a time when Isabel’s powers of endurance were lost in the abyss of mental suffering into which she was flung, and she struggled like a mad creature for freedom.  He held her in his arms, feeling her strength wane with every paroxysm, till at last she lay exhausted, only feebly entreating him for the respite he would not grant.

But even when the bitter conflict was over, when she was utterly conquered at last, and he laid her down, too weak for further effort, he did not gather the fruits of victory.  For her eyes remained wide and glassy, dry and sleepless with the fever that throbbed ceaselessly in the poor tortured brain behind.

She was passive from exhaustion only, and though he closed the staring eyes, yet they opened again with tense wakefulness the moment he took his hand from the burning brow.

The night was far advanced when Biddy, creeping softly came to her mistress’s side in the belief that she slept at last.  She had not dared to come before, had not dared to interfere though she had listened with a wrung heart to the long and futile battle; for Sir Eustace’s wrath was very terrible, too terrible a thing to incur with impunity.

But the moment she looked upon Isabel’s face, her courage came upon a flood of indignation that carried all before it.

“Faith, I believe you’ve killed her!” she uttered in a sibilant whisper across the bed.  “Is it yourself that has no heart at all?”

He looked back to her, dominant still, though the prolonged struggle had left its mark upon him also.  His face was pale and set.

“This is only a phase,” he said quietly.  “She will fall asleep presently.  You can get her a cup of tea if you can do it without making a fuss.”

Biddy turned from the bed.  That glimpse of Isabel’s face had been enough.  She had no further thought of consequences.  She moved across the room to set about her task, and in doing so she paused momentarily and pressed the bell that communicated with Scott’s room.

Sir Eustace did not note the action.  Perhaps the long strain had weakened his vigilance somewhat.  He sat in massive obduracy, relentlessly watching his sister’s worn white face.

Two minutes later the door opened, and a shadowy figure slipped into the room.

He looked up then, looked up sharply.  “You!” he said, with curt displeasure.

Scott came straight to him, and leaned over his sister for a moment with a hand on his shoulder.  She did not stir, or seem aware of his presence.  Her eyes gazed straight upwards with a painful, immovable stare.

Scott stood up again.  His hand was still upon Eustace.  He looked him in the eyes.  “You go to bed, my dear chap!” he said.  “I’ve had my rest.”

Eustace jerked back his head with a movement of exasperation.  “You promised to stay in your room unless you were rung for,” he said.

Scott’s brows went up for a second; then, “For the night, yes!” he said.  “But the night is over.  It is nearly six.  I shan’t sleep again.  You go and get what sleep you can.”