"O God, Eugene!" she shrieked, and fell back upon the sofa, not fainting, but utterly paralyzed, her limbs as cold as marble, her blood turned to ice in her veins. It was Eugene Livingston. Gently folding his arms, cap in hand, he surveyed his wife. His face was turned from the light,--its ghastly paleness could not be seen. His cloak hid the heavings of his breast. But the light which fired his eyes, met the eyes of his wife, and burned into her soul. He did not speak to her. Turning from her, he surveyed Beverly Barron, who had started to his feet, and who now stood as if suddenly frozen, with something of the look and attitude of a man who is condemned to watch a lighted candle, as it burns away in the center of a barrel of gunpowder. Not a word was spoken. Joanna crouching on the sofa, her chin resting on her clasped hands,--Beverly on the floor, his hands outspread, and his face dumb with terror,--Eugene standing between them, folding his cloak upon his breast, as he silently turned his gaze, first to his wife, and then to her seducer. At length Eugene spoke,-- "Come, Joanna," he said, "here is your father. He will take you home." She looked up and beheld the straight, military form, the stern visage and snow-white hair of her father. One look only, and she sank lifeless at his feet. She may have meant to have knelt before him, but as she rose from the sofa, or rather, glided from it, she fell like a corpse at his feet. The old general's nether lip worked convulsively, but he did not speak. "General, take her to my home, and at once," whispered Eugene. "There must be no scandal, no noise, and----" he paused as if suffocating,--"no _harshness_, mark you." The general was a stalwart man, although his hair was white as snow,--a man whose well-knit limbs, erect bearing, and sinewy hands, indicated physical vigor undimmed by age, but he trembled like a withered leaf as he raised his daughter from the floor. "I will do as you direct, Eugene," he said, in a husky voice. "You will find her cloak in the next room," said Eugene, "and the carriage is at the door." The general girded his insensible daughter in his arms, and bore her from the room. As he crossed the threshold, he groaned like a dying man. Eugene and Beverly were alone. Beverly at a rapid glance surveyed the room. Eugene stood between him and the door; he turned to the windows, which were covered with thick curtains. Those windows were three stories high. There was no hope of escape by the windows. "Will you take a chair, my friend," said Eugene. Beverly sank into a chair, near the table; as he seated himself, he felt his knees bend beneath him, and his heart leap to his throat. Eugene took a chair opposite, and shading his eyes with his hand, surveyed the seducer. There was silence for a few moments, a silence during which both these men endured the agonies of the damned.