f
lightning illumines its turbulent breast and lets one see how the
"ambitious ocean" can "swell, and rage, and foam, to be exalted with the
threatening clouds." The sailors and boatmen generally, in the small
village, are going anxiously to and fro, as though fearful of what such
a night as this may produce.

Now a loud peal of thunder rattles overhead, rendering insignificant the
wild howling of the wind that only a moment since had almost been
deafening. And then the thunder dies away for a while, and the storm
shrieks again, and the windows rattle, and the gaunt trees groan and
sway, and the huge drops upon the window panes beating incessantly, make
once more a "mournful music for the mind."

They are all assembled in Dulce's boudoir, being under the impression,
perhaps, that while the present incivility of the elements continues,
it is cosier to be in a small room than a large one. It may be this, or
the fact that both Dulce and Portia have declined to come down stairs or
enter any other room, until dinner shall be announced, under any pretext
whatever. And so as the mountain won't come to Mohammed, Mohammed has
come to the mountain.

Sir Christopher has just gone through an exaggerated _resume_ of old
Slyme's disgraceful conduct last night, when the door is opened, and
they all become aware that the hero of the story is standing before
them.

Yes, there stands Gregory Slyme, pale, breathless, and with one hand
already uplifted, as though to deprecate censure, and to stay the order
to "begone," that he plainly expects from every lip.

"Why, he is here again!" cries Sir Christopher, now incensed beyond
measure. "Even my niece's room is not safe from him."

He points angrily to the secretary, who cowers before his angry look,
yet shows no intention of retiring. With all his air of hopeless
sottishness, that clings to him like a spotted garment, there is still
something strange about the man that attracts the attention of Mark
Gore. He has been closely watching him ever since his entrance, and he
can see that the head usually buried in the chest is now uplifted, that
in the sunken eyes there is a new meaning, a fire freshly kindled, born
of acute mental disturbance; and indeed in his whole bearing there is a
settled _purpose_ very foreign to it.

"Hear me, hear me!" he entreats, with quivering accents, but passionate
haste. "Do not send me away _yet_, I _must_ speak now--now, or never!"

The final word sinks