By the hum of approval that followed this proposition, Morton judged rightly that it had been addressed to several persons whom curiosity and the explosion of the pistols had drawn from their beds, and who were grouped round the porter’s lodge. What was to be done?--to advance was impossible: and was there yet time to retreat?--it was at least the only course left him; he sprang back up the stairs; he had just gained the first flight when he heard steps descending; then, suddenly, it flashed across him that he had left open the window above--that, doubtless, by that imprudent oversight the officer in pursuit had detected a clue to the path he had taken. What was to be done?--die as Gawtrey had done!--death rather than the galleys. As he thus resolved, he saw to the right the open door of an apartment in which lights still glimmered in their sockets. It seemed deserted--he entered boldly and at once, closing the door after him. Wines and viands still left on the table; gilded mirrors, reflecting the stern face of the solitary intruder; here and there an artificial flower, a knot of riband on the floor, all betokening the gaieties and graces of luxurious life--the dance, the revel, the feast--all this in one apartment!--above, in the same house, the pallet--the corpse--the widow--famine and woe! Such is a great city! such, above all, is Paris! where, under the same roof, are gathered such antagonist varieties of the social state! Nothing strange in this; it is strange and sad that so little do people thus neighbours know of each other, that the owner of those rooms had a heart soft to every distress, but she did not know the distress so close at hand. The music that had charmed her guests had mounted gaily to the vexed ears of agony and hunger. Morton passed the first room--a second--he came to a third, and Eugenie de Merville, looking up at that instant, saw before her an apparition that might well have alarmed the boldest. His head was uncovered--his dark hair shadowed in wild and disorderly profusion the pale face and features, beautiful indeed, but at that moment of the beauty which an artist would impart to a young gladiator--stamped with defiance, menace, and despair. The disordered garb--the fierce aspect--the dark eyes, that literally shone through the shadows of the room--all conspired to increase the terror of so abrupt a presence. “What are you?--What do you seek here?” said she, falteringly, placing her hand on the bell as she spoke. Upon that soft hand Morton laid his own. “I seek my life! I am pursued! I am at your mercy! I am innocent! Can you save me?” As he spoke, the door of the outer room beyond was heard to open, and steps and voices were at hand. “Ah!” he exclaimed, recoiling as he recognised her face. “And is it to you that I have fled?”