the joy of my heart. You hold her life in
your hand.' (Damoride drops on her knees; she is a devout person;
she crosses herself, and then she speaks.) 'Mistress, you terrify me.
Mistress, what do I hear?' (Cunegonda advances, stands over her, looks
down on her with terrible eyes, whispers the next words.) 'Damoride! the
Lady Angelica must die--and I must not be suspected. The Lady Angelica
must die--and by your hand.'"

He paused again. To sip the wine once more? No; to drink a deep draught
of it this time.

Was the stimulant beginning to fail him already?

I looked at him attentively as he laid himself back again in his chair
to consider for a moment before he went on.

The flush on his face was as deep as ever; but the brightness in his
eyes was beginning to fade already. I had noticed that he spoke more and
more slowly as he advanced to the later dialogue of the scene. Was he
feeling the effort of invention already? Had the time come when the wine
had done all that the wine could do for him?

We waited. Ariel sat watching him with vacantly staring eyes and
vacantly open mouth. Ben jamin, impenetrably expecting the signal, kept
his open note-book on his knee, covered by his hand. Miserrimus Dexter
went on:

"Damoride hears those terrible words; Damoride clasps her hands in
entreaty. 'Oh, madam! madam! how can I kill the dear and noble lady?
What motive have I for harming her?' Cunegonda answers, 'You have the
motive of obeying Me.' (Damoride falls with her face on the floor at
her mistress's feet.) 'Madam, I cannot do it! Madam, I dare not do
it!' Cunegonda answers, 'You run no risk: I have my plan for diverting
discovery from myself, and my plan for diverting discovery from you.'
Damoride repeats, 'I cannot do it! I dare not do it!' Cunegonda's eyes
flash lightnings of rage. She takes from its place of concealment in her
bosom--"

He stopped in the middle of the sentence, and put his hand to his
head--not like a man in pain, but like a man who had lost his idea.

Would it be well if I tried to help him to recover his idea? or would it
be wiser (if I could only do it) to keep silence?

I could see the drift of his story plainly enough. His object, under
the thin disguise of the Italian romance, was to meet my unanswerable
objection to suspecting Mrs. Beauly's maid--the objection that the woman
had no motive for committing herself to an act of murder. If he could
practically contradict this, by discovering a