All, however, was as still as death, and the voices of those who spoke in the inner chamber were, if they spoke at all, carefully subdued to a tone which could not be heard in the next.  At once, however, they were heard to speak fast, thick, and hastily; and presently after the voice of the Countess was heard exclaiming, at the highest pitch to which indignation could raise it, “Undo the door, sir, I command you!—­undo the door!—­I will have no other reply!” she continued, drowning with her vehement accents the low and muttered sounds which Varney was heard to utter betwixt whiles.  “What ho! without there!” she persisted, accompanying her words with shrieks, “Janet, alarm the house!—­Foster, break open the door—­I am detained here by a traitor!  Use axe and lever, Master Foster—­I will be your warrant!”

“It shall not need, madam,” Varney was at length distinctly heard to say.  “If you please to expose my lord’s important concerns and your own to the general ear, I will not be your hindrance.”

The door was unlocked and thrown open, and Janet and her father rushed in, anxious to learn the cause of these reiterated exclamations.

When they entered the apartment Varney stood by the door grinding his teeth, with an expression in which rage, and shame, and fear had each their share.  The Countess stood in the midst of her apartment like a juvenile Pythoness under the influence of the prophetic fury.  The veins in her beautiful forehead started into swoln blue lines through the hurried impulse of her articulation—­her cheek and neck glowed like scarlet—­her eyes were like those of an imprisoned eagle, flashing red lightning on the foes which it cannot reach with its talons.  Were it possible for one of the Graces to have been animated by a Fury, the countenance could not have united such beauty with so much hatred, scorn, defiance, and resentment.  The gesture and attitude corresponded with the voice and looks, and altogether presented a spectacle which was at once beautiful and fearful; so much of the sublime had the energy of passion united with the Countess Amy’s natural loveliness.  Janet, as soon as the door was open, ran to her mistress; and more slowly, yet with more haste than he was wont, Anthony Foster went to Richard Varney.

“In the Truth’s name, what ails your ladyship?” said the former.

“What, in the name of Satan, have you done to her?” said Foster to his friend.

“Who, I?—­nothing,” answered Varney, but with sunken head and sullen voice; “nothing but communicated to her her lord’s commands, which, if the lady list not to obey, she knows better how to answer it than I may pretend to do.”

“Now, by Heaven, Janet!” said the Countess, “the false traitor lies in his throat!  He must needs lie, for he speaks to the dishonour of my noble lord; he must needs lie doubly, for he speaks to gain ends of his own, equally execrable and unattainable.”

“You have misapprehended me, lady,” said Varney, with a sulky species of submission and apology; “let this matter rest till your passion be abated, and I will explain all.”