The crowd was excessive⁠—a drawing-room had not been held for a long time, and all who were anxious to bask in the smile of royalty, hastened thither. Aubrey was there with his sister. While he was standing in a corner by himself, heedless of all around him, engaged in the remembrance that the first time he had seen Lord Ruthven was in that very place⁠—he felt himself suddenly seized by the arm, and a voice he recognized too well, sounded in his ear⁠—“Remember your oath.” He had hardly courage to turn, fearful of seeing a spectre that would blast him, when he perceived, at a little distance, the same figure which had attracted his notice on this spot upon his first entry into society. He gazed till his limbs almost refusing to bear their weight, he was obliged to take the arm of a friend, and forcing a passage through the crowd, he threw himself into his carriage, and was driven home. He paced the room with hurried steps, and fixed his hands upon his head, as if he were afraid his thoughts were bursting from his brain. Lord Ruthven again before him⁠—circumstances started up in dreadful array⁠—the dagger⁠—his oath.⁠—He roused himself, he could not believe it possible⁠—the dead rise again!⁠—He thought his imagination had conjured up the image his mind was resting upon.