The Duke is agitated. He waves his arm in the air, and calls out in a
tone of defiance and of hate. His voice sinks: it seems that he breathes
a milder language, and speaks to some softer being. There is no sound,
save the long-drawn breath of one on whose countenance is stamped
infinite amazement. Arundel Dacre walks the room disturbed; often he
pauses, plunged in deep thought. 'Tis an hour past midnight, and he
quits the bedside of the young Duke.
He pauses at the threshold, and seems to respire even the noisome air
of the metropolis as if it were Eden. As he proceeds down Hill Street he
stops, and gazes for a moment on the opposite house. What passes in
his mind we know not. Perhaps he is reminded that in that mansion dwell
beauty, wealth, and influence, and that all might be his. Perhaps love
prompts that gaze, perhaps ambition. Is it passion, or is it power? or
does one struggle with the other?
As he gazes the door opens, but without servants; and a man, deeply
shrouded in his cloak, comes out. It was night, and the individual
was disguised; but there are eyes which can pierce at all seasons and
through all concealments, and Arundel Dacre marked with astonishment Sir
Lucius Grafton.
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