At the same time the door opened; a man appeared on the threshold. He was without a hat, carried a sword, and flourished a handkerchief in his hand.
Milady thought she recognized this shadow in the gloom; she supported herself with one hand upon the arm of the chair, and advanced her head as if to meet a certainty.
The stranger advanced slowly, and as he advanced, after entering into the circle of light projected by the lamp, Milady involuntarily drew back.
Then when she had no longer any doubt, she cried, in a state of stupor, “What, my brother, is it you?”
“Yes, fair lady!” replied Lord de Winter, making a bow, half courteous, half ironical; “it is I, myself.”
“But this castle, then?”
“Is mine.”
“This chamber?”
“Is yours.”
“I am, then, your prisoner?”
“Nearly so.”
“But this is a frightful abuse of power!”
“No high-sounding words! Let us sit down and chat quietly, as brother and sister ought to do.”
Then, turning toward the door, and seeing that the young officer was waiting for his last orders, he said. “All is well, I thank you; now leave us alone, Mr. Felton.”