The door was ajar, and he
could see the faint light of the night-lamp within. That fearful cry had
come from her ladyship's room. She was in peril or pain of some kind.
Convinced of this one fact, Mr. Hammond had not an instant's hesitation.
He pushed open the door without compunction, and entered the room,
prepared to behold some terrible scene.
But all was quiet as death itself. No midnight burglar had violated the
sanctity of Lady Maulevrier's apartment. The soft, steady light of the
night-lamp shone on the face of the sleeper. Yes, all was quiet in the
room, but not in that sleeper's soul. The broad white brow was painfully
contracted, the lips drawn down and distorted, the delicate hand, half
hidden by the deep Valenciennes ruffle, clutched the coverlet with
convulsive force. Sigh after sigh burst from the agitated breast. John
Hammond gazed upon the sleeper in an agony of apprehension, uncertain
what to do. Was this dreaming only; or was it some kind of seizure which
called for medical aid? At her ladyship's age the idea of paralysis was
not too improbable for belief.
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