I contradicted him at once. "It is nothing of the sort! It's a nervous
malady, which medical science can control and cure. Wait till we get to
London."

This expression of opinion produced no effect on him.

"I have taken the life of a fellow-creature," he said. "I have closed
the career of a young man who, but for me, might have lived long and
happily and honorably. Say what you may, I am of the race of Cain. _He_
had the mark set on his brow. I have _my_ ordeal. Delude yourself,
if you like, with false hopes. I can endure--and hope for nothing.
Good-night."

VIII.

EARLY the next morning, the good old butler came to me, in great
perturbation, for a word of advice.

"Do come, sir, and look at the master! I can't find it in my heart to
wake him."

It was time to wake him, if we were to go to London that day. I went
into the bedroom. Although I was no doctor, the restorative importance
of that profound and quiet sleep impressed itself on me so strongly,
that I took the responsibility of leaving him undisturbed. The event
proved that I had acted wisely. He slept until noon. There was no return
of "the torment of the voice"--as he called it, poor fellow. We passed
a quiet day, excepting one little interruption, which I am warned not to
pass over without a word of record in this narrative.