In the instant afterward, she moved—before he had completely passed over the space between them. Her still figure began to tremble. She lifted her drooping head. For a moment there was a shrinking in her—as if she had been touched by something. She seemed to recognize the touch: she was still again.
John Zant watched the change. It suggested to him that she was beginning to recover her senses. He tried the experiment of speaking to her.
“My love, my sweet angel, come to the heart that adores you!”
He advanced again; he passed into the flood of sunlight pouring over her.
“Rouse yourself!” he said.
She still remained in the same position; apparently at his mercy, neither hearing him nor seeing him.
“Rouse yourself!” he repeated. “My darling, come to me!”
At the instant when he attempted to embrace her—at the instant when Mr. Rayburn rushed into the room—John Zant’s arms, suddenly turning rigid, remained outstretched. With a shriek of horror, he struggled to draw them back—struggled, in the empty brightness of the sunshine, as if some invisible grip had seized him.
“What has got me?” the wretch screamed. “Who is holding my hands? Oh, the cold of it! the cold of it!”
His features became convulsed; his eyes turned upward until only the white eyeballs were visible. He fell prostrate with a crash that shook the room.