“Why, yes. I am almost as good as ever. I must have been asleep when you came in. I had a bad dream. I thought your brother sent you away from the Castle so that you could not come and let me out.”
“He did,” cried Vivienne, “and for that I shall never forgive him. He told Doctor Procida that I was mad, and they took me to the lunatic asylum at Salvanetra, but I escaped the next day. Then I fell ill and, for three days, I knew nothing. To-day is the fifth day and I thought you must be dead, for I had not faith enough in God to believe that He would send His dumb creatures to feed you and rain from Heaven for you to drink. I have been so wicked—but now that God in His mercy has brought us together again, we will be good—will we not, Vandemar?”
“Give me more of that wine, Vivienne. It is very good, and you are the best woman I ever knew. With good wine and a good woman, no man should be bad.”
“Hush, Vandemar,” said Vivienne; “do not speak so. We should be good because we ought to be and not because we get what we wish for. Come, come, let us be going. My brother is away and you must get to a place of safety before he returns. Give me your hand. I will lead you, for I know how to find the door.”
When they reached it, the terrible truth dawned upon her. She stood rooted to the spot—she could not speak.
“Open the door quickly, Vivienne,” he said, and he had never spoken so gently before. “This has been a long night, Vivienne, and my couch was not a soft one. Open the door, for I yearn to see the blue sky, the trees, and the flowers, and hear the songs of birds. Then, too, I would look out upon the water and see my good ship riding at anchor. How glad the Admiral will be to see me, and how interested Helen will be to hear of my adventures—and how Heaven sent my good angel to rescue me and make me happy for life. I will take you to England, Vivienne, where there is no cruel vendetta—but why do you not open the door?”
“My God!” she cried, and her voice was tense with pain, “I cannot.”
“Let me try,” he said, “I am stronger than you are. Tell me how to open it.”
“We are lost!” she moaned. “I had forgotten—the door cannot be opened from the inside.”
“What? You forgot? We are lost?” There was passion, suspicion, despair, in the words.