Even then Boldwood did not
recognize that the impersonator of Heaven's persistent
irony towards him, who had once before broken in
upon his bliss, scourged him, and snatched his delight
away, had come to do these things a second time.
Troy began to laugh a mechanical laugh: Boldwood
recognized him now.
Troy turned to Bathsheba. The poor girl's wretched-
ness at this time was beyond all fancy or narration.
She had sunk down on the lowest stair; and there
she sat, her mouth blue and dry, and her dark eyes
fixed vacantly upon him, as if she wondered whether it
were not all a terrible illusion.
Then Troy spoke. "Bathsheba, I come here for
you!"
She made no reply.
"Come home with me: come!
Bathsheba moved her feet a little, but did not rise.
Troy went across to her.
"Come, madam, do you hear what I say?" he said,
peremptorily.
A strange voice came from the fireplace -- a voice
sounding far off and confined, as if from a dungeon.
Hardly a soul in the assembly recognized the thin tones
to be those of Boldwood. Sudden dispaire had trans-
formed him.
"Bathsheba, go with your husband!"
Nevertheless, she did not move.
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