"'From the gold bar of heaven.'"

("Never knew they had 'em up there," murmured Spinks.)

"'Her eyes were deeper than the depth of waters stilled at
even'--Oh--my--God!"

A great sigh shook him, and went shuddering into the night like the
passing of a lost soul. He got up and staggered to the table, and
grasped it by the edge, nearly upsetting the lamp. The flare in his
brain had died down as the lamp burnt steadily. Under its shade a
round of light fell on his Euripides, open at the page he had been
reading the night before.

[Greek: ELENÊ]

He saw it very black, with the edges a little wavering, a little
blurred, as if it had been burnt by fire into the whiteness of the
page. Below, the smaller type of a chorus reeled and shook through all
its lines. Set up by an intoxicated compositor.

Under the Euripides was the piled up manuscript of Rickman's great
neo-classic drama, _Helen in Leuce_. He implored Spinks to read it.
(Spinks was a draper's assistant and uncultured.) He thrust the
manuscript into his hands.

"There," he said, "rea' that. Tha's the sor' o' thing I write when I'm
drunk. Couldn' do it now t' save my life. Temp'rance been _my_ ruin."