And thus it was when Lord Francis exclaimed, “Too late! O Heaven! to think my own eyes should be witness of my own eternal shame, and—hers,” the hand of Fate was stretched out against the intriguing and vicious Count de Mürger. For as Lord Francis staggered back to his room, dazed, stunned, the cold tears welling up into his eyes, his head on his arms, his whole form limp with shattered nerves, a new and terrible power was created within him. He fell into a chair, entirely overcome, and for a little while appeared to sleep. But it was the sleep that awakens, the mesmeric sleep that walks and acts, the dream-sleep that takes possession of body and mind; such sleep as that which afflicted Lady Macbeth after the murder of Duncan.
Hardly had De Mürger surprised the startled Fenella than Lord Francis arose from the chair and retraced his steps toward his wife’s room. While all that he knew of himself was asleep, Nature, in one of its strangest freaks, propelled him forth.
“Back, sir! How dare you come here?” Lady Francis was exclaiming as he entered the room.
De Mürger had just risen from his knees, and in Fenella’s hand, raised above her head, was a gleaming dagger.
“But, my dear Fenella, listen,” said the count.
“Back, I say! Touch me, and I will kill you!”
“Oh, this is foolish bravado,” the Frenchman answered.
“Another word, and I will alarm the house.”
“That would only be to ruin your reputation,” said the daring lover.
“God knows I have not much reputation to lose in the eyes of the world, since it seems I have given you sufficient encouragement to bring you here.”