It seemed evident to him that the man was either
guilty of some terrible act, or imagined himself to be. His
eyeballs rolled in their sockets, and his features showed that he
was undergoing "the tortures of that inward hell," which seemed to
set his whole brain on fire.
After recovering her self-possession and strength, Clotelle
approached the bedside, and laid her soft hand upon the stranger's
hot and fevered brow.
One long, loud shriek rang out on the air, and a piercing cry, "It
is she!---Yes, it is she! I see, I see! Ah! no, it is not my
daughter! She would not come to me if she could!" broke forth from
him.
"I am your daughter," said Clotelle, as she pressed her
handkerchief to her face, and sobbed aloud.
Like balls of fire, the poor man's eyes rolled and glared upon the
company, while large drops of perspiration ran down his pale and
emaciated face. Strange as the scene appeared, all present saw
that it was indeed a meeting between a father and his long-lost
daughter. Jerome now ordered all present to leave the room, except
the nurse, and every effort was at once made to quiet the
sufferer. When calm, a joyous smile would illuminate the sick man's
face, and a strange light beam in his eyes, as he seemed to
realize that she who stood before him was indeed his child.
For two long days and nights did Clotelle watch at the bedside of
her father before he could speak to her intelligently. Sometimes,
in his insane fits, he would rave in the most frightful manner,
and then, in a few moments, would be as easily governed as a
child.
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