"Watchman! watchman! Wake up!"
He slept on as heavily as ever.
She half rose from her chair. She was almost on her feet—when she sank back again. Jack had moved. He got up on his knees. "Mistress hears me!" he said. The light of vivid expression showed itself in his eyes. Their vacancy was gone: they looked longingly at the door of the cell. He got on his feet—he pressed both hands over his bosom. "Come!" he said. "Oh, Mistress, come!"
There was a sound—a faint premonitory rustling sound—over the door.
The steel hammer moved—rose—struck the metal globe. The bell rang.
He stood rooted to the floor, sobbing hysterically. The iron grasp of suspense held him.
Not a cry, not a movement escaped Madame Fontaine. The life seemed to have been struck out of her by the stroke of the bell. It woke Schwartz. Except that he looked up, he too never moved: he too was like a living creature turned to stone.
A minute passed.
The curtains swayed gently. Tremulous fingers crept out, parting them. Slowly, over the black surface of the curtain, a fair naked arm showed itself, widening the gap.
The figure appeared, in its velvet pall. On the pale face the stillness of repose was barely ruffled yet. The eyes alone were conscious of returning life. They looked out on the room, softly surprised and perplexed—no more. They looked downwards: the lips trembled sweetly into a smile. She saw Jack, kneeling in ecstasy at her feet.