It was nothing but a bad dream then, after all, this horror which still hung round me, leaving me incapable of effort, almost of thought.  I remembered the cabinet, and looked swiftly in that direction.  There it stood, closed as usual, closed as it had been the evening before, as it had been for the last three hundred years, except in my dreams.

Yes, that was it; nothing but a dream,—­a gruesome, haunting dream.  With an instinct of wiping out the dreadful memory, I raised my hand wearily to my forehead.  As I did so, I became conscious again of how it hurt me.  I looked at it.  It was covered with half-dried blood, and two straight clean cuts appeared, one across the palm and one across the inside of the fingers just below the knuckles.  I looked again towards the bed, and, in the place where my hand had rested during my faint, a small patch of red blood was to be seen.

Then it was true!  Then it had all happened!  With a low shuddering sob I threw myself down upon the couch at the foot of the bed, and lay there for some minutes, my limbs trembling, and my soul shrinking within me.  A mist of evil, fearful and loathsome, had descended upon my girlhood’s life, sullying its ignorant innocence, saddening its brightness, as I felt, for ever.  I lay there till my teeth began to chatter, and I realized that I was bitterly cold.  To return to that accursed bed was impossible, so I pulled a rug which hung at one end of the sofa over me, and, utterly worn out in mind and body, fell uneasily asleep.

I was roused by the entrance of my maid.  I stopped her exclamations and questions by shortly stating that I had had a bad night, had been unable to rest in bed, and had had an accident with my hand,—­without further specifying of what description.

“I didn’t know that you had been feeling unwell when you went to bed last night, miss,” she said.

“When I went to bed last night?  Unwell?  What do you mean?”

“Only Mr. Alan has just asked me to let him know how you find yourself this morning,” she answered.

Then he expected something, dreaded something.  Ah! why had he yielded and allowed me to sleep here, I asked myself bitterly, as the incidents of the day before flashed through my mind.

“Tell him,” I said, “what I have told you; and say that I wish to speak to him directly after breakfast.”  I could not confide my story to any one else, but speak of it I must to some one or go mad.

Every moment passed in that place was an added misery.  Much to my maid’s surprise I said that I would dress in her room—­the little one which, as I have said, was close to my own.  I felt better there; but my utter fatigue and my wounded hand combined to make my toilet slow, and I found that most of the party had finished breakfast when I reached the dining-room.  I was glad of this, for even as it was I found it difficult enough to give coherent answers to the questions which my white face and bandaged hand called forth.  Alan helped me by giving a resolute turn to the conversation.  Once only our eyes met across the table.  He looked as haggard and worn as I did:  I learned afterwards that he had passed most of that fearful night pacing the passage outside my door, though he listened in vain for any indication of what was going on within the room.