and drawn, and his eyes had lost their steady light. He grasped the
chair to save himself from falling; he had lost over himself both
physical and mental control. It seemed to him that two beings, two
distinct entities, were at war within his brain--that new, glorious
consciousness, and a tangible power above, which forced it down with
an iron hand--down--down--into the depths of his mind, where its cries
for speech came up in faint, inarticulate murmurs. And it tried and
tried, that strange new thing, to struggle from its dungeon and reach
the wide, free halls of his thought, but it could not; it beat against
that unrelaxing iron hand only to fall back again and again. And it
sang and sang and sang, in spite of its struggles and captivity. The
faint, sweet echo came up--if he could but catch the words! If he
could but dash aside that iron hand, and let his brain absorb them!
Surely a word or two must force their way--yes! yes! they had come!
"Her face! her form!"--He tore open his waistcoat; his lungs felt as
if they had been exhausted. Then, how he never knew, he managed to
reach his sofa, and fell face downward upon it; and the next morning,
when his valet came in and drew aside the curtains and let in the
light of mid-day, he found him there as he had fallen.




III.


Harold Dartmouth came of a family celebrated throughout its history
for producing men of marked literary and political ability. Few
generations had passed without a Dartmouth distinguishing himself,
and those members of the family less gifted were not in the habit