“That voice—surely I have heard it before—it is so like his!” she whispered to herself. “Who are you, sir?”
“Behold!” exclaimed the stranger, throwing off his disguise.
“Great Heavens! Maurice!” and Imogene, trembling in every joint, staggered against the wall for support.
“Yes, Imogene!” replied her visitor, making a bow, half courteous, half ironical—“it is I.”
“For what reasons are you here?—you, whom all thought to be hundreds of leagues hence?”
“To express my love to you. Yes, Imogene—it is the great love I bear you that has placed me here, and made me what you see me.”
“Are you a voluntary inmate of this horrid place?”
“I am.”
“And these wretched men that brought me hither?”
“Are my subordinates.”