She did not flinch or start when Mr. Fullarton's words caught her ear, but a heavy, chill faintness stole over her, till she felt all her limbs benumbed, and every thing before her eyes grew misty and dim. The numbness passed away almost immediately, but still the figures around her appeared distorted and fantastically exaggerated; they seemed to be tossing and whirling round one steadfast centre, as the dead leaves in winter eddy round the marble head of a statue; that single centre-object remained, throughout, distinct and unaltered in its aspect, while all else was confused and uncertain--the face of Royston Keene. The sight of that face--not defiant or even stern, but immutable in its cold tranquillity--acted on Cecil as a magical restorative; it seemed as though he were able, by some mesmeric influence, to impart to her a portion of his own miraculous self-control. Before his reply to the chaplain was ended, she threw back her proud head with the old imperial gesture, as if scorning her own momentary weakness; no mist or shadow clouded the brilliant violet eyes; she might speak safely now, without risking a false note in the music. It was no light peril that she escaped; the betrayal of emotion under such circumstances would have weighed down a meeker spirit than The Tresilyan's with a sense of ineffaceable shame; for remember--however marked her partiality for Keene might have been--there had been no suspicion of an engagement between them. Had she broken down then, she would not have forgiven Royston to her dying day: she never _did_ forgive the chaplain. As it was--by a strange anomaly--at the very moment when she became aware of having been deluded and misled, in intention if not by actually spoken words--when she had most reason to hate or despise the "enemy who had done her this dishonor"--she felt his hold upon her heart strengthened, as though he had justified his right to command it. Not to women alone, but to all beautiful, wild creatures, the ancient aphorism applies: the harder they are to discipline, the better they love their tamer. Cecil thought, "there is not another man alive whose eyes could meet mine so daringly:" and the haughty spirit bowed itself, and did obeisance to its suzerain. Different in many respects as good can be from evil--in one, those two were as fairly matched as Thiodolf and Isolde. Who can tell what wealth of happiness might have been stored up for both, if they had only not met--too late?