As the fumes of the wine mounted upward, the heated imagination and inflamed passions of Clermistonlee got completely the better of his senses. Thoughts of Lilian's beauty and helplessness came vividly before him; but such reflections instead of kindling his pity, roused all his passion for her to an ungovernable height. Draining a cup of brandy to make him yet more reckless of consequences, and snatching a candle, he staggered from the room, and descended the narrow stone stair that led from his apartment. He knew that he was alone, for Beatrix was under lock and key; yet he stepped with singular caution. Every stone in the rough walls seemed a grotesque face, regarding him with mockery and wrath; he saw a figure in every shadow, heard a step in every whistle of the midnight wind. He dared not look at portraits as he passed, lest their eyes might seem to move; and thus, though the entire consciousness of his dark intent came broadly and appallingly home to his heart, such was the influence of his ungoverned passions that a spirit of the merest obstinacy urged him to finish what he in part commenced, and the high pulsations of his heart increased at every step which brought him nearer to the chamber of his victim. He entered the hall. The feeble rays of his upheld candle seemed only to reveal the size and darkness of the place, and the grey winter twilight that struggled through its thickly grated and deeply-arched windows. The embers of the fire still smouldered on the hearth, and, reddening when the hollow wind rumbled down the wide chimney, threw the shadows of the great oaken table, the dark grotesque cabinets and highbacked chairs in long and frightful figures on the paved floor. Entering the almonry, he opened a door, within it, which revealed a narrow passage in the wall that communicated with the secret outlets of the place, and led directly to the cabinet in Lilian's room. He stood within it, and the warmth of its atmosphere increased the ferment of his blood. Unconscious of the proximity of so dangerous a visitor, the innocent girl slept soundly, but lightly. Shading the light with his hand, he gazed impatiently upon the slumbering beauty. Her hair, which overnight she had put up with the carelessness so natural to grief, had now escaped from the caul, and rolled over the pillow in masses that glittered like gold in the rays of the uncertain light. She was very pale, but a slight glow began to redden her cheek, and it was graced with a smile of inexpressible sweetness. Twice he approached, and twice drew back irresolute. An unseen hand seemed to restrain him; the air of perfect innocence pervading the presence of the sleeping girl protected her for a time; and scarcely daring to breathe, the intruder continued to gaze upon her. She slept softly. At last, tears fell over her cheeks, and she tenderly murmured-- "Dear Walter, have I not said that I love you?"