Stretched upon a mattress, with both hands tightly bound to the bedstead, the friendless stranger was indeed a pitiful sight.

His dark, dishevelled hair prematurely gray, his long, unshaven beard, and the wildness of the eyes which glanced upon them as they opened the door and entered, caused the faint hope which had so suddenly risen in Clotelle's heart, to sink, and she felt that this man could claim no kindred with her.

Certainly, he bore no resemblance to the man whom she had called her father, and who had fondly dandled her on his knee in those happy days of childhood.
"Help!" cried the poor man, as Jerome and his wife walked into the room.
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.