All the rest is humbug and delicacy. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. She entered and approached the bunk. The vault, in which Sir Rowland found himself, resembled in some measure the cabin of a ship. Possessed of you, I shall have a treasure such as kings could not boast. Altogether, it was the most dreadful noise he had ever heard.
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