The physician lifted her in his arms.  “My worst fears are confirmed,” he said gravely; “the disease is epilepsy.” (The most celebrated practitioner in Dublin related to the editor a story of optical delusion precisely similar in its circumstances and its physical cause to the one here narrated.)

The next night, at the same hour, Adela Glyndon died.

CHAPTER 5.VI.

     La loi, dont le regne vous epouvante, a son glaive leve sur vous: 
     elle vous frappera tous:  le genre humain a besoin de cet
     exemple.—­Couthon.

     (The law, whose reign terrifies you, has its sword raised against
     you; it will strike you all:  humanity has need of this example.)

“Oh, joy, joy!—­thou art come again!  This is thy hand—­these thy lips.  Say that thou didst not desert me from the love of another; say it again,—­say it ever!—­and I will pardon thee all the rest!”

“So thou hast mourned for me?”

“Mourned!—­and thou wert cruel enough to leave me gold; there it is,—­there, untouched!”

“Poor child of Nature! how, then, in this strange town of Marseilles, hast thou found bread and shelter?”

“Honestly, soul of my soul! honestly, but yet by the face thou didst once think so fair; thinkest thou that now?”

“Yes, Fillide, more fair than ever.  But what meanest thou?”

“There is a painter here—­a great man, one of their great men at Paris, I know not what they call them; but he rules over all here,—­life and death; and he has paid me largely but to sit for my portrait.  It is for a picture to be given to the Nation, for he paints only for glory.  Think of thy Fillide’s renown!” And the girl’s wild eyes sparkled; her vanity was roused.  “And he would have married me if I would!—­divorced his wife to marry me!  But I waited for thee, ungrateful!”

A knock at the door was heard,—­a man entered.

“Nicot!”

“Ah, Glyndon!—­hum!—­welcome!  What! thou art twice my rival!  But Jean
Nicot bears no malice.  Virtue is my dream,—­my country, my mistress. 
Serve my country, citizen; and I forgive thee the preference of beauty. 
Ca ira! ca ira!”

But as the painter spoke, it hymned, it rolled through the streets,—­the fiery song of the Marseillaise!  There was a crowd, a multitude, a people up, abroad, with colours and arms, enthusiasm and song,—­with song, with enthusiasm, with colours and arms!  And who could guess that that martial movement was one, not of war, but massacre,—­Frenchmen against Frenchmen?  For there are two parties in Marseilles,—­and ample work for Jourdan Coupe-tete!  But this, the Englishman, just arrived, a stranger to all factions, did not as yet comprehend.  He comprehended nothing but the song, the enthusiasm, the arms, and the colours that lifted to the sun the glorious lie, “Le peuple Francais, debout contre les tyrans!” (Up, Frenchmen, against tyrants!)