Was that a voice from the lowest depths of hell? Had I heard those words--and did I not fall down upon my face, and call to the mountains to fall on me, and to the hills to cover me? No; I sat on and grasped Henry's hand, and saw his deadly pale face turned to the gallery over our heads; and I heard a scuffle above, and a row beginning, and a sound of voices like the hoarse murmur of the sea when the waves are rising; then Edward's voice ceased, and loud deafening cheers rang through the building; and Henry dragged me through the crowd; and among that world of faces, and in that rushing noise, and in that hurrying to and fro, I felt as if I must eternally wander, and hear again and again those words which had curdled my blood, and sickened my heart. "Oh, no!" I cried, as Henry carried me to the carriage, and placed me by Alice's side, "Oh, no!" I cried, regardless of her presence, and almost wild with despair, "now, my punishment is greater than I can bear. I must leave him,--I must fly,--I must hide myself for ever... I am mad. Don't you see I am mad, Henry? Don't try to stop me. She must know it--he must know it--all the world must know it now. Let me go, let me go!" I sunk back into the carriage; and the last thing I heard, before I fainted, was Henry saying to his wife, "The excitement has been too much for her. I fear the brain fever will return." CHAPTER XX. "For now I stand as one upon a rock, Environed with a wilderness of sea, Who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave, Expecting ever, when some curious surge Will, in his brinish bowels, swallow him." SHAKESPEARE. When I opened my eyes again, my head was leaning on Alice's shoulder, and Henry was springling water on my face. We were just arriving at the inn; and, half supported, half carried by Henry and Mr. Middleton, who met us at the door, I reached my own room. At first I had no distinct recollection of what had occurred, but gradually the whole of it came back to my mind. Dreadful is that return of memory, after nature has for a while suspended the consciousness of pain. I turned with a feeling that was almost like aversion from my aunt and from Alice, who were bathing my head and hands with eau de Cologne, and offering me sal volatile and water to drink. There seemed a want of sympathy in their very kindness. I almost felt to dislike them for their ignorance of what I was enduring, and for talking of past fatigue and present rest, while I was suffering so acutely. "I should like to be alone, and to try and sleep." "Should you, my love? Then we will go, and leave your maid in the next room, in case you should want anything."