"Mr. Merton, Mr. Merton--in God's name, what is the matter?"

Merton recoiled at the sound of his voice; and, as he did so, dropped
something on the floor, which rolled away to a distance; and he stood
gazing silently and horribly upon his interrogator.

"Mr. Merton, I say, what is it?" urged the man. "Are you hurt? Your face
is bloody."

Merton raised his hand to his face mechanically, and Sir Wynston's man
observed that it, too, was covered with blood.

"Why, man," he said, vehemently, and actually freezing with horror," you
are all bloody; hands and face; all over blood."

"My hand is cut to the bone," said Merton, in a harsh whisper; and
speaking to himself, rather than addressing the servant--"I wish it was
my neck; I wish to God I bled to death."

"You have hurt your hand, Mr. Merton," repeated the man, scarce knowing
what he said.

"Aye," whispered Merton, wildly drawing toward the bedside again; "who
told you I hurt my hand? It is cut to the bone, sure enough."

He stooped for a moment over the bed, and then cowered down toward the
floor to search for what he had dropped.

"Why, Mr. Merton, what brings you here at this hour?" urged the man,
after a pause of a few seconds. "It is drawing toward morning."