His eyes glared, and shriek after shriek broke forth from his parched and fevered lips.
"No, I did not kill my daughter!--I did not! she is not dead! Yes, she is dead! but I did not kill her--poor girl Look! that is she! No, it cannot be! she cannot come here! it cannot be my poor Clotelle." At the sound of her own name, coming from the maniac's lips, Clotelle gasped for breath, and her husband saw that she had grown deadly pale.
It seemed evident to him that the man was either guilty of some terrible act, or imagined himself to be.

His eyeballs rolled in their sockets, and his features showed that he was undergoing "the tortures of that inward hell," which seemed to set his whole brain on fire.
After recovering her self-possession and strength, Clotelle approached the bedside, and laid her soft hand upon the stranger's hot and fevered brow.
One long, loud shriek rang out on the air, and a piercing cry, "It is she!---Yes, it is she! I see, I see! Ah! no, it is not my daughter! She would not come to me if she could!" broke forth from him.
"I am your daughter," said Clotelle, as she pressed her handkerchief to her face, and sobbed aloud.
Like balls of fire, the poor man's eyes rolled and glared upon the company, while large drops of perspiration ran down his pale and emaciated face.

Strange as the scene appeared, all present saw that it was indeed a meeting between a father and his long-lost daughter.
Jerome now ordered all present to leave the room, except the nurse, and every effort was at once made to quiet the sufferer.

When calm, a joyous smile would illuminate the sick man's face, and a strange light beam in his eyes, as he seemed to realize that she who stood before him was indeed his child.
For two long days and nights did Clotelle watch at the bedside of her father before he could speak to her intelligently.

Sometimes, in his insane fits, he would rave in the most frightful manner, and then, in a few moments, would be as easily governed as a child.