When tortured by these thoughts, he would so toss and groan as to raise his fever and inflame his wounds. And all this very much protracted his recovery.
And through all this gloom and horror still he saw the heavenly vision, like Dante’s angel at the gates of Hell, and still he longed to have it realized; longed, yet feared; and ever he prayed:
“Oh! that I could do her some great service! Oh, that the Lord would take pity on me and give me the power!”
Alexander, among his other thoughts, of course thought of the duel that had laid him upon this bed of penance.
In the natural reaction—the calmness that succeeded to the excitement of his passions, when reason had opportunity to act—he saw that he had no just cause for the jealousy that had driven him to one of the maddest acts of his life.
That Prince Ernest should have admired Drusilla was not only natural but inevitable, since every one who was brought into her company did the same; that he should have testified this admiration with continental enthusiasm seemed almost excusable; but that his sentiments went further, or that Drusilla would have tolerated any attentions unworthy to be received by her, Alexander in his sober senses could not believe.
Now that like the prodigal of Holy Writ he had come to himself, he perceived that his jealousy, like every other passion of his soul, had been insane in its excess and frantic in its exhibition.
Now how fervently he thanked Heaven that the duel into which his temporary madness had driven him had not resulted in death to his adversary and blood-guiltiness to himself.
But—and this was a very serious question—how had the mad duel affected Drusilla.
It was always, he knew, most injurious, even to the most innocent women, to have her name mixed up in any such matter.