"I beg you to be calm," interrupted William. "This excitement must be most injurious to one in your weak state; I cannot sit and listen to it."
"Tell him," said she, leaning forward, and speaking in a somewhat calmer tone, "tell him that it was he who caused the death of his brother Anthony."
William could only look at her. Was she wandering? "I killed him," she went on. "Killed him in mistake for Monsieur Herbert."
Barely had the words left her lips, when all that had been strange in that past tragedy seamed to roll away as a cloud from William's mind. The utter mystery there had been as to the perpetrator: the almost impossibility of pointing accusation to any, seemed now accounted for: and a conviction that she was speaking the dreadful truth fell upon him. Involuntarily he recoiled from her.
"He used me ill; yes, he used me ill, that wicked Herbert!" she continued in agitation. "He told me stories; he was false to me; he mocked at me! He had made me care for him; I cared for him—ah, I not tell you how. And then he turned round to laugh at me. He had but amused himself—pour faire passer la temps!"
Her voice had risen to a shriek; her face and lips grew ghastly, and she began to twitch as one falling into convulsion. William grew alarmed, and hastened to her support. He could not help it, much as his spirit revolted from her.
"Y a-t-il quelque chose qu'on peut donner à madame pour la soulager?" he called out hastily to the sister in his fear.
The woman glided in. "Mais oui, monsieur. Madame s'agite, n'est-ce pas?"
"Elle s'agite beaucoup."
The sister poured some drops from a phial into a wine-glass of water, and held it to those quivering lips. "Si vous vous agitez comme cela, madame, c'est pour vous tuer, savez-vous?" cried she.