The fifth letter:

"MY DEAR JOYCE,--Whether your eyes will ever see these letters is
doubtful. From this place I shall never send them. They would read
to you as the ravings of a madman. If ever I return to England I may
one day show them to you, but when I do it will be when I, with you,
can laugh over them. At present I write them merely to hide away,--
putting the words down on paper saves my screaming them aloud.

"She comes each night now, taking the same seat beside the embers,
and fixing upon me those eyes, with the hell-light in them, that burn
into my brain; and at rare times she smiles, and all my being passes
out of me, and is hers. I make no attempt to work. I sit listening
for her footsteps on the creaking bridge, for the rustling of her
feet upon the grass, for the tapping of her hand upon the door. No
word is uttered between us. Each day I say: 'When she comes to-
night I will speak to her. I will stretch out my hand and touch
her.' Yet when she enters, all thought and will goes out from me.

"Last night, as I stood gazing at her, my soul filled with her
wondrous beauty as a lake with moonlight, her lips parted, and she
started from her chair; and, turning, I thought I saw a white face
pressed against the window, but as I looked it vanished. Then she
drew her cloak about her, and passed out. I slid back the bolt I
always draw now, and stole into the other room, and, taking down the
lantern, held it above the bed. But Muriel's eyes were closed as if
in sleep."