finding it. A vague sense
of confusion was still in her mind. She was in no hurry to light the
match. The pause in the darkness was, for the moment, agreeable to her.

In the quieter flow of her thoughts during this interval, she could ask
herself the natural question:--What cause had awakened her so suddenly,
and had so strangely shaken her nerves? Had it been the influence of a
dream? She had not dreamed at all--or, to speak more correctly, she
had no waking remembrance of having dreamed. The mystery was beyond
her fathoming: the darkness began to oppress her. She struck the match
on the box, and lit her candle.

As the welcome light diffused itself over the room, she turned from the
table and looked towards the other side of the bed.

In the moment when she turned, the chill of a sudden terror gripped her
round the heart, as with the clasp of an icy hand.

She was not alone in her room!

There--in the chair at the bedside--there, suddenly revealed under the
flow of light from the candle, was the figure of a woman, reclining.
Her head lay back over the chair. Her face, turned up to the ceiling,
had the eyes closed, as if she was wrapped in a deep sleep.

The shock of the discovery held Agnes speechless and helpless. Her
first conscious action, when she was in some degree mistress of herself
again, was to lean over the bed, and to look closer at the woman who
had so incomprehensibly stolen into her room in the dead of night. One
glance was enough: she started back with a cry of amazement. The
person in the chair was no other than the widow of the dead
Montbarry--the woman who had warned her that they were to meet again,
and that the place might be Venice!

Her courage returned to her, stung into action by the natural sense of
indignation which the presence of the Countess provoked.

'Wake up!' she called out. 'How dare you come here? How did you get
in? Leave the room--or I will call for help!'

She raised her voice at the last words. It produced no effect.
Leaning farther over the bed, she boldly took the Countess by the
shoulder and shook her. Not even this effort succeeded in rousing the
sleeping woman. She still lay back in the chair, possessed by a torpor
like the torpor of death--insensible to sound, insensible to touch.
Was she really sleeping? Or had she fainted?

Agnes looked closer at her. She had not fainted. Her breathing was
audible, rising and falling in deep heavy gasps. At intervals she
grou