Denis would still be here, of course; but what could Denis do? He fell back upon all the old methods of concealing dead bodies he had ever heard of, but everything seemed impossible. What fools all those others must have been! Well, he could give himself up and explain matters; but then the Professor—to have his great discovery derided and held up to ridicule! The old man’s look, as he saw it a little while ago, seemed to forbid his betrayal of his defeat. Great heavens! what was to be done? He drew himself up with a heavy sigh, and passed his hand across his eyes, then turned to go back to the inner room to see if the Professor was still sleeping. As he went he tried to avoid glancing at the couch where the dead form lay, but when he got close, some force stronger than his will compelled him to look at it. And as he looked he felt turned into stone. He seemed frozen to the spot on which he stood; his eyes refused to remove themselves from what they saw. Staring like one benumbed, he told himself at last that he was going mad. How otherwise could he see this thing? Sweat broke out on his forehead, and a cry escaped him. The corpse was looking at him! CHAPTER IV. ‘Look, then, into thine heart and write!’ Very intently, too, and as if surprised or trying to remember. Her large eyes seemed singularly brilliant, and for a while the only thing living about her. But all at once, as though memory had returned, she sprang to her feet and stood, strong, and utterly without support, and questioned him with those eyes silently but eloquently. The queerest thing about it all to Wyndham was that, instead of being enfeebled by the strange draught she had drunk, she looked younger, more vigorous, and altogether another person from the forlorn, poor child of eight hours ago. Her eyes were now like stars, her lips red and warm; the drug had, beyond doubt, a property that even the Professor had never dreamt of; it gave not only rest, but renewed health and life to those who drank it. Seeing Wyndham did not or could not speak, she did. ‘I am alive—alive!’ she cried, with young and happy exultation. Where was the desire for death that lay so heavily on her only a few hours ago? It was all gone. Now it was plain that she desired life—life only. Her voice rang through the room fresh and clear, filling it with music of a hope renewed, and so penetrating that it even pierced into the room beyond. And as it reached it, another cry broke forth—a cry this time old and feeble. Wyndham rushed to answer it, taking with him his last memory of the girl, as she then stood, with her arms thrown out as if in quick delight, and her whole strange, beautiful face one ray of gladness. The Professor was sitting up in bed a mere wreck, but with expectation on every feature. He was trembling visibly. ‘That voice!’ he whispered wildly—‘that voice! I know it. Long years ago I knew it. Boy, speak—tell me, whose voice was that?’