"Et au moment suprême où, femme au zénith des a gloire, elle cède à la seconde passion—voilà l’objet de la première qui rèsuscite, et vient la rèclamer! Ah, dieux, quel cri! Les oreilles m’en tintent encore. Jamais je ne l’oublierai, ce cri d’un coeur qui s’effondre...." "And the resuscitated man? The devil! where does he come from? Springing up in the old house in the middle of the night. Another tragedy there! He misdoubts, as yet, nothing. Strong in his right, in the memory of their love, he comes to claim her of the old husband—Of the third, of the lover, he has no suspicion. My God, with what eyes of trouble and wonder did he not look at me when I bade him leave her! Unhappy fellow, why ’tis his very existence that’s killing her! How long will it be before he finds out the truth, finds out that, at the very moment of regaining his treasure, he has been robbed, robbed by him who was his friend? And the friend, then, that man of granite, how will he bear himself? Will even his relentless determination stand before that terrible double knowledge of his own unconscious treachery to his comrade and of the mortal danger to his beloved? A stronger man, even than he, might well go mad! ... As for the pitiable second husband, the old man, who counts for so little in the midst of these three young lives, and is yet so stricken in all he holds most dear—his dignity, his honour, his pathetic senile confidence and affection—what of him? Oh, antique, silent house, what palpitating drama do you not hold, this desolate dawn! Those three men, each with his passion and his claim—his just claim—and the woman there, lying so still! ..." So M. Châtelard mused, with ever and anon a keen eye to the patient, a stealthy touch on the pulse. A pale shaft of light pierced in between the curtains, and, like a slowly shifting finger, moved straightly till it pointed to the bed. M. Châtelard started, rubbed his eyes, adjusted his spectacles, and stared again. The heavy, half-loosened tress that lay across the sheet shone silver in the light—the tress that had been so richly golden, crown of that haughty head, only the evening before. "I have heard of such a thing," said the doctor to himself, "but it is the first time that I have seen it with my own eyes." He bent over the pillow and curiously lifted the strand of hair. There was no illusion about it. Rosamond’s glorious hair was white. *CHAPTER V* "I think you had better get your uncle a little whisky, or something," said Lady Aspasia to Baby, as, upon their ejection into the passage, she guided the poor gentleman’s vague footsteps towards her own room. "Come in here, Arty; there’s a good fire." Sir Arthur turned his eyes upon her with a vacant look, catching at surprise. "Yes, my room. But, Lord, I don’t think any of us need mind the _convenances_ to-night!"