His appearance was in keeping with the room; a soiled dressing-gown, that had once been very elegant, was wrapt carelessly about him; his black hair streamed over the pillow, and gave an almost ghastly effect to his face, as he lay in that troubled dream, already pale and worn from many sleepless nights.
It was a handsome face, but one from which a physiognomist would have shrunk, had he seen it in its hard truthfulness, without a gleam of the fascination which it was capable of expressing in guarded moments and under more fortunate circumstances.
The sleeper was on the sunny side of mid-age, but his countenance was one of those which carries no idea of youth with it, even in early boyhood it was so marked by craft and recklessness that nothing of the abandon of fresh feeling ever left an imprint there.
It was nearly noon, but he had not stirred or opened his eyes; once or twice the dilapidated chambermaid, who performed a slatternly duty in that part of the building, opened the door and peeped in, but her entrance had not served to arouse him, and she knew better than to venture upon any further attempt.
Suddenly he woke from a troubled dream and looked about him.
"I dreamed they were railing me up in a coffin," he muttered; "pah, how plainly I heard them driving in the nails!"
He turned upon his pillow with a shuddering oath, but that instant there came a knock at the door, this time quick and impatient—it was the first summons which had caused him that unquiet vision.
"Come in," he called out; "the door isn't locked."
The man raised himself indolently on the bed and looked towards the door—it opened slowly and a woman entered the room.
Her face was concealed under a heavy veil, but the man seemed to recognize her at once, for he started up and gave a muttered execration as he caught sight of his untidy appearance in the little mirror.