ed
upon his bewildered and unreasoning mind, to doubt was almost to
believe, and crossing the ante-chamber to AEnone's room, he burst in upon
her.

She had fallen into a troubled sleep--lying dressed upon the outside of
her couch, as, in her agony of mind, she had first thrown herself down.
The unspent tears still trembled upon her eyelids. Beside her lay the
little folded parchment which Cleotos had given her. She had taken it
out to read, hoping, but scarcely believing, that she would now be able
to experience the truth of what she had been told about the earnest
words there written being divinely adapted to give peace to a troubled
heart. But her sorrow was too deep to be healed by phrases whose spirit
could, of necessity, be so imperfectly comprehended by her; and the
writing had slipped unheeded from her light grasp.

As her husband now entered, she awoke and sat upright, in frightened
attitude, not knowing what fate was about to befall her.

'Where is he? What have you done with him?' Sergius cried, seizing her
by the arm.

She did not answer, not knowing, of course, wherefore the question was
put to her, or what it concerned. Yet, perceiving that she was again
suspected of some act of which she was innocent, she would have asked
for mercy and pardon, if time had been given her. But even that was
denied her. Hardly, indeed, could she draw a breath, when she felt that
a new thread was woven in the web of misconception which surrounded her.
For, at that moment, her husband's eye fell upon the forgotten
parchment; and picking it up, he opened it, gave one hasty look, and
then tossed it aside. What need, now, of further proof? Was not that the
slave's writing, recognizable at a glance? Words of love, of course! And
she had gone to sleep fondly holding them in her hand, as a treasure
from which she could not be parted for an instant. Words not freshly
written, either, for the parchment was yellow and discolored. So much
the worse, therefore; for did it not prove a course of long-continued
deception? Could there be any doubt now? Yes, a long deceit. And this
was she for whom, in his simplicity, he had but a moment before been
framing excuses, in the effort to convince himself that her fault had
been one of impulse, rather than of cool deliberation! This was she in
whose behalf he had weakly lowered himself to plead to his own cast-off
slave for extenuating evidences! And once more grasping her by the arm,
he lifted