Canaris could not stir; Gladys whispered, with white lips, and her hand upon the cup,—“Dare I give it?”
He could only answer by a sign, and cowered into the shadow, while she put the draught to Helwyze’s lips, fearing to let him waken now. He drank drowsily, yet seemed half-conscious of her presence; for he looked up with sleep-drunken eyes, and murmured, as if to the familiar figure of a dream,—
“Mine asleep, his awake,” then whispering brokenly about “Felix, Vivien, and daring any thing,” he was gone again into the lethargy which alone could bring forgetfulness.
Gladys feared her husband would hear the almost inaudible words; but he had vanished, and when she glided out to join him, carefully closing the door behind her, a glance showed that her fear was true.
Relieved, yet not repentant, he stood there looking at a red stain on his hand with such a desperate expression that Gladys could only cling to him, saying, in a terror-stricken whisper,—
“Felix, for God’s sake, come away! What are you doing here?”
“Going mad, I think,” he answered, under his breath; but added, lifting up his hand with an ominous gesture, “I would have done it if you had not stopped me. It would be better for us all if he were dead.”
“Not so; thank Heaven I came in time to save you from the sin of murder!” she said, holding fast the hand as yet unstained by any blood but its own.
“I have committed murder in my heart. Why not profit by the sin, since it is there? I hate that man! I have cause, and you know it.”
“No, no, not all! You shall tell me every thing; but not now, not here.”