she lay there, whitely
submitting to the tyranny of any enemy. She could scarcely breathe;
London, like a scaly dragon, flung its hot breath upon her and withered
her defiance. She would have moved away from the window had not those
grey roofs held her, by their ugly indifference, with a terrible
fascination. "I'm going--I'm going--and they don't care. Just like
that--just like that--long after I'm gone."

The evening slipped away and Dorchester, coming to her, thought that she
was sleeping; she did not disturb her, but ordered her evening meal to
be kept until she should wake.

The Duchess did sleep. She awoke to find, in the sky above the now
vanishing roofs, a golden glow and in the room behind her the shaded
lamps, the fire burning, and her table spread.

But she had had a horrible dream; she struggled to recall it and, even
as she struggled, trembling seized her body as the vague horror that it
had left behind it still thrilled and troubled her.

She could recollect nothing of her dream except this, that she had died,
and that being dead, she was immediately aware that God awaited her.
She could remember her frantic effort to reassert all those earthly
convictions that had been based on the definite creed that the Duchess
existed but _not_ God. She had still with her the sensation of hurry and
dismay, the dismal knowledge that she had only a moment with which to
break down the discoveries of a lifetime and place new ones in her
stead.

She had, above all, the horrible knowledge that her punishment was
settled, that at last she was in the hands of a power stronger than
herself and that nothing, nothing, nothing could help her.

She was frightened, but she knew not by what or by whom. She tried to
tell herself that she had been dreaming, that this breathless evening
was responsible, that she would be all right very soon. But she was
seized by that terrible vague uncertainty that had been with her so much
lately, uncertainty as to what was real and what was not. She looked at
the French novel lying upon her lap; that was real, she supposed, and
yet as she touched its pages her fingers seemed to seize upon nothing,
only air between them.

The fits of trembling shook her from head to foot and yet she could
scarcely breathe, so close and heavy was the night.

"That was only a dream--only a dream. Suppose it should be true though.
What if I _were_ to die--to-night?"

Dorchester came to her and was alarmed.

"