"What ho! without there!" she persisted, accompanying her words with shrieks, "Janet, alarm the house!--Foster, break open the door--I am detained here by a traitor! Use axe and lever, Master Foster--I will be your warrant!" "It shall not need, madam," Varney was at length distinctly heard to say.

"If you please to expose my lord's important concerns and your own to the general ear, I will not be your hindrance." The door was unlocked and thrown open, and Janet and her father rushed in, anxious to learn the cause of these reiterated exclamations.
When they entered the apartment Varney stood by the door grinding his teeth, with an expression in which rage, and shame, and fear had each their share.

The Countess stood in the midst of her apartment like a juvenile Pythoness under the influence of the prophetic fury.

The veins in her beautiful forehead started into swoln blue lines through the hurried impulse of her articulation--her cheek and neck glowed like scarlet--her eyes were like those of an imprisoned eagle, flashing red lightning on the foes which it cannot reach with its talons.

Were it possible for one of the Graces to have been animated by a Fury, the countenance could not have united such beauty with so much hatred, scorn, defiance, and resentment.