heard his door close. After that it seemed to him that he took
but two steps and was in his own place.

He burst out laughing; there was as much hysteria in the laugh as a man
gives way to. His nerves were shattered by struggle, love and fear, and
sought relief in ghastly merriment. Somehow the whole scene reminded
him of one in a comic opera. There was a ludicrous side to it. Supposing
that the political opponents, who already hated him so bitterly, could
have seen him slinking from door to door at midnight with an unconscious
lady in his arms--what would they have said?

He ceased laughing; the fit passed--indeed it was no laughing matter.
Then he thought of the first night of their strange communion, that
night before he had returned to London. The seed sown in that hour had
blossomed and borne fruit indeed. Who would have dreamed it possible
that he should thus have drawn Beatrice to him? Well, he ought to have
known. If it was possible that the words which floated through her
mind could arise in his as they had done upon that night, what was
not possible? And were there not other words, written by the same
master-hand, which told of such things as these:

"'Now--now,' the door is heard;
Hark, the stairs! and near--
Nearer--and here--
'Now'! and at call the third,
She enters without a word.

Like the doors of a casket shrine,
See on either side,
Her two arms divide
Till the heart betwixt makes sign,
'Take me, for I am thine.'

First, I will pray. Do Thou
That ownest the soul,
Yet wilt grant control
To another, nor disallow
For a time, restrain me now!"

Did they not run thus? Oh, he should have known! This he could plead,
and this only--that control had been granted to him.

But how would Beatrice fare? Would she come to herself safely? He
thought so, it was only a fainting fit. But when she did recover, what
would she do? Nothing rash, he prayed. And what could be the end of
it all? Who might say? How fortunate that the sister had been so sound
asleep. Somehow he did not trust Elizabeth--he feared her.

Well might Geoffrey fear her! Elizabeth's sleep was that of a weasel.
She too was laughing at this very moment, laughing, not loud but
long--the laugh of one who wins.

She had seen him enter, his burden in his arms; saw him come with it to
her own bedside, and had breathed heavily to warn him of his mistake.
She had watched