oom, but lying in her little bed,
bound as in the awful dream of the clashing orbs. She knew she was
there, and yet she felt that her eyes, all her faculties of observation,
had been somehow transferred to her father's room, and that she was
actually seeing and hearing the commission of a murder there.

She tried to cry aloud, but her jaws were closed. She would have risen,
entered the room, and thrown herself between the frenzied men, but
neither hand nor foot could she move. Her body was fastened to the bed
as if with adamantine chains, while her mind and soul were the voiceless
spectators of a tragedy of which she knew that she was the cause. She
could not even open her eyes. If she could have loosed but a muscle from
the rigidity of the trance, she knew that her whole frame would be
relaxed in an instant. Then she would have bounded--oh! with what
speed--into the other room, where her immortal part was helplessly
watching the conflict, and interceded at the risk of her life. Alas!
Prometheus was tied to the rock not more firmly than she to that bed
of anguish!

The struggle went on. The inventor, though past the prime of life, and
worn down by excessive thought, had some strength left. Its duration was
brief; but it was not to be despised while it lasted. He grasped the
tall figure of Marcus Wilkeson by the neck with one arm, and with the
other struck dozens of blows upon his face and chest. The comparative
youth and freshness of Marcus were unable to free him from the strong
hold of this vigorous old man. Pangs of terror shot through the heart of
the poor girl as she saw that her father was about to become a murderer.
Then the tide of fortune changed. Marcus, bruised and black in the face,
and panting with exertion, released himself from the inventor's clutch,
and, in turn, caught him by the throat. With his long arm he held the
furious old man at a safe distance. The unhappy girl was now agonized
with fears for her father's life.

"This is madness. Let us stop it." Thus Pet heard Marcus Wilkeson say,
in panting accents.

What demoniac spell was it that prevented her from shrieking--"Stop it.
In God's name, father, stop?"

"Never!" said the undaunted old man. "Never, till I have thrown you
headlong down stairs! Liar! Villain!"

With that, Pet saw her father hurl himself, with the ferocity of a
tiger, on Marcus Wilkeson. Such was the suddenness and impetuosity of
the movement, that Marcus was pushed back seve