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Don Abbondio, affrighted, astonished, and enraged, took an

immediate resolution; and while Renzo was uttering the words,

"Sir Curate, in the presence of these witnesses, this is my

wife," and the poor Lucy had begun, "And this is--" he had

snatched from the table the cloth which covered it, throwing on

the ground books, pen, ink, and paper, and in haste letting fall

the light, he threw it over and held it wrapped around the face

of Lucy, at the same time roaring out, "Perpetua! Perpetua!

treachery! help!" The wick, dying in the socket, sent a feeble

and flickering light over the figure of Lucy, who, entirely

overcome, stood like a statue, making no effort to free herself.

The light died away, and left them in darkness; Don Abbondio

quitted the poor girl, and felt cautiously along the wall for a

door that led to an inner chamber; having found it, he entered,

and locked himself in, crying out, "Perpetua! treachery! help!

out of the house!