In the quieter flow of her thoughts during this interval, she could ask herself the natural question:—­What cause had awakened her so suddenly, and had so strangely shaken her nerves?  Had it been the influence of a dream?  She had not dreamed at all—­or, to speak more correctly, she had no waking remembrance of having dreamed.  The mystery was beyond her fathoming:  the darkness began to oppress her.  She struck the match on the box, and lit her candle.

As the welcome light diffused itself over the room, she turned from the table and looked towards the other side of the bed.

In the moment when she turned, the chill of a sudden terror gripped her round the heart, as with the clasp of an icy hand.

She was not alone in her room!

There—­in the chair at the bedside—­there, suddenly revealed under the flow of light from the candle, was the figure of a woman, reclining.  Her head lay back over the chair.  Her face, turned up to the ceiling, had the eyes closed, as if she was wrapped in a deep sleep.

The shock of the discovery held Agnes speechless and helpless.  Her first conscious action, when she was in some degree mistress of herself again, was to lean over the bed, and to look closer at the woman who had so incomprehensibly stolen into her room in the dead of night.  One glance was enough:  she started back with a cry of amazement.  The person in the chair was no other than the widow of the dead Montbarry—­ the woman who had warned her that they were to meet again, and that the place might be Venice!

Her courage returned to her, stung into action by the natural sense of indignation which the presence of the Countess provoked.

‘Wake up!’ she called out.  ’How dare you come here?  How did you get in?  Leave the room—­or I will call for help!’

She raised her voice at the last words.  It produced no effect.  Leaning farther over the bed, she boldly took the Countess by the shoulder and shook her.  Not even this effort succeeded in rousing the sleeping woman.  She still lay back in the chair, possessed by a torpor like the torpor of death—­insensible to sound, insensible to touch.  Was she really sleeping?  Or had she fainted?

Agnes looked closer at her.  She had not fainted.  Her breathing was audible, rising and falling in deep heavy gasps.  At intervals she ground her teeth savagely.  Beads of perspiration stood thickly on her forehead.  Her clenched hands rose and fell slowly from time to time on her lap.  Was she in the agony of a dream? or was she spiritually conscious of something hidden in the room?

The doubt involved in that last question was unendurable.  Agnes determined to rouse the servants who kept watch in the hotel at night.

The bell-handle was fixed to the wall, on the side of the bed by which the table stood.

She raised herself from the crouching position which she had assumed in looking close at the Countess; and, turning towards the other side of the bed, stretched out her hand to the bell.  At the same instant, she stopped and looked upward.  Her hand fell helplessly at her side.  She shuddered, and sank back on the pillow.