was to be done? Bring her back to life? No, he dared not--not here.
While she lay thus her helplessness protected her; but if once more she
was a living, loving woman here and so--oh, how should they escape? He
dared not touch her or look towards her--till he had made up his mind.
It was soon done. Here she must not bide, and since of herself she could
not go, why he must take her now, this moment! However far Geoffrey fell
short of virtue's stricter standard, let this always be remembered in
his favour.

He opened the door, and as he did so, thought that he heard some
one stirring in the house. And so he did; it was Mr. Granger in the
sitting-room. Hearing no more, Geoffrey concluded that it was the wind,
and turning, groped his way to the bed where Beatrice lay as still as
death. For one moment a horrible fear struck him that she might be dead.
He had heard of cases of somnambulists who, on being startled from their
unnatural sleep, only woke to die. It might be so with her. Hurriedly he
placed his hand upon her breast. Yes, her heart stirred--faintly indeed,
but still it stirred. She had only swooned. Then he set his teeth,
and placing his arms about her, lifted her as though she were a babe.
Beatrice was no slip of a girl, but a well-grown woman of full size. He
never felt her weight; it seemed nothing to him. Stealthily as one bent
on midnight murder, he stepped with her to the door and through it into
the passage. Then supporting her with one arm, he closed the door with
his left hand. Stealthily in the gloom he passed along the corridor, his
bare feet making no noise upon the boarded floor, till he reached the
bisecting passage leading from the sitting-rooms.

He glanced up it apprehensively, and what he saw froze the blood in
his veins, for there coming down it, not eight paces from him, was Mr.
Granger, holding a candle in his hand. What could be done? To get
back to his room was impossible--to reach that of Beatrice was also
impossible. With an effort he collected his thoughts, and like a flash
of light it passed into his mind that the empty room was not two paces
from him. A stride and he had reached it. Oh, where was the handle? and
oh, if the room should be locked! By a merciful chance it was not. He
stepped through the door, knocking Beatrice's feet against the framework
as he did so, closed it--to shut it he had no time--and stood gasping
behind it.

The gleam of light drew nearer. Merciful powers! he h