But, as the struggle proceeded, the
room seemed to be gradually lighted up for her; and every grapple, every
blow, every facial contortion of this horrible contest, were plainly
visible. And yet she was not in the room, but lying in her little bed,
bound as in the awful dream of the clashing orbs. She knew she was
there, and yet she felt that her eyes, all her faculties of observation,
had been somehow transferred to her father's room, and that she was
actually seeing and hearing the commission of a murder there.
She tried to cry aloud, but her jaws were closed. She would have risen,
entered the room, and thrown herself between the frenzied men, but
neither hand nor foot could she move. Her body was fastened to the bed
as if with adamantine chains, while her mind and soul were the voiceless
spectators of a tragedy of which she knew that she was the cause. She
could not even open her eyes. If she could have loosed but a muscle from
the rigidity of the trance, she knew that her whole frame would be
relaxed in an instant. Then she would have bounded--oh! with what
speed--into the other room, where her immortal part was helplessly
watching the conflict, and interceded at the risk of her life.
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