It was with feelings of trepidation that Clotelle heard these
particulars from the lips of her husband.
"We must see this poor man, whoever he is," said she, as Jerome
finished the sentence.
The landlord was glad to hear that his guests felt some interest in
the sick man, and promised that the invalid's room should be got
ready for their reception.
The clock in the hall was just striking ten, as Jerome passed
through and entered the sick man's chamber. Stretched upon a
mattress, with both hands tightly bound to the bedstead, the
friendless stranger was indeed a pitiful sight. His dark,
dishevelled hair prematurely gray, his long, unshaven beard, and
the wildness of the eyes which glanced upon them as they opened the
door and entered, caused the faint hope which had so suddenly
risen in Clotelle's heart, to sink, and she felt that this man
could claim no kindred with her. Certainly, he bore no
resemblance to the man whom she had called her father, and who had
fondly dandled her on his knee in those happy days of childhood.
"Help!" cried the poor man, as Jerome and his wife walked into the
room. His eyes glared, and shriek after shriek broke forth from
his parched and fevered lips.
"No, I did not kill my daughter!--I did not! she is not dead! Yes,
she is dead! but I did not kill her--poor girl Look! that is she!
No, it cannot be! she cannot come here! it cannot be my poor
Clotelle."
At the sound of her own name, coming from the maniac's lips,
Clotelle gasped for breath, and her husband saw that she had grown
deadly pale.
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