The general girded his insensible daughter in his arms, and bore her from the room. As he crossed the threshold, he groaned like a dying man.
Eugene and Beverly were alone. Beverly at a rapid glance surveyed the room. Eugene stood between him and the door; he turned to the windows, which were covered with thick curtains. Those windows were three stories high. There was no hope of escape by the windows.
"Will you take a chair, my friend," said Eugene.
Beverly sank into a chair, near the table; as he seated himself, he felt his knees bend beneath him, and his heart leap to his throat.
Eugene took a chair opposite, and shading his eyes with his hand, surveyed the seducer. There was silence for a few moments, a silence during which both these men endured the agonies of the damned.
"You have a daughter, I believe," said Eugene, in a voice that was broken by a tremor. "You may wish to send some word to her. Here is a pencil and tablets. Let me ask you to be brief."
He flung the pencil and tablets upon the table. Beverly recoiled as though a serpent had stung him.
"Eugene," he faltered, for the first time finding words, "you—you do not mean to murder me?"
And his florid face grew ashy with abject terror.
Eugene did not reply, but knocked twice upon the marble table with his clenched hand. Scarcely had the echo of the sound died away, when the door was once more opened, and two persons advanced to the table.