this mornin', in one of Andy Trimble's whiskey barrels. For shame, Mr.
Fenton, you they say a gintleman born, and to thrate one of your own
rank--a gintleman that befriended you as he did, and put a daicint shoot
of clo'es on your miserable carcase; when you know that before he did
it, if the wind was blowing from the thirty-two points of the compass,
you had an openin' for every point, if they wor double the number.
Troth, now, you're ongrateful, an' if God hasn't said it, you'll thravel
from an onpenitent death-bed yet. Be quiet, will you, or my sinful sowl
to glory, but I'll bundle you downstairs?"

"He will be quiet, Pat," said the stranger. "In truth, after all, this
is a mere physical malady, Mr. Fenton, and will pass away immediately,
if you will only sit down and collect yourself a little."

Fenton, however, made another unavailable attempt at struggle, and
found that he was only exhausting himself to no purpose. All at once, or
rather following up his previous suspicions, he seemed to look upon the
powerful individual who held him, as a person who had become suddenly
invested with a new character that increased his terrors; and yet, if
we may say so, almost forced him into an anxiety to suppress their
manifestation. His limbs, however, began to tremble excessively; his
eyes absolutely dilated, and became filled by a sense of terror, nearly
as wild as despair itself. The transitions of his temper, however, like
those of his general conduct, supervened upon each other with remarkable
rapidity, and, as it were, the result of quick, warm, and inconsiderate
impulses.

"Well," he exclaimed at length, "I will be quiet, I am, I assure you,
perfectly harmless; but, at the same time," he added, sitting down, "I
know that the whole dialogue between you and that awful-looking man, was