that night I was filled with a gloomy fury of the nerves. I had
killed him; he had done his utmost to protect me; I had seen him
with that awful smile. And so illogical and useless is this
sentiment of remorse, that I was ready, at a word or a look, to
quarrel with somebody else. I presume the disposition of my mind
was imprinted on my face; and when, a little after, I overtook,
saluted and addressed the doctor, he looked on me with
commiseration and surprise.

I had asked him if it was true.

'Yes,' he said, 'the fellow's gone.'

'Did he suffer much?' I asked.

'Devil a bit; passed away like a lamb,' said he. He looked on me a
little, and I saw his hand go to his fob. 'Here, take that! no
sense in fretting,' he said, and, putting a silver two-penny-bit in
my hand, he left me.

I should have had that twopenny framed to hang upon the wall, for
it was the man's one act of charity in all my knowledge of him.
Instead of that, I stood looking at it in my hand and laughed out
bitterly, as I realised his mistake; then went to the ramparts, and
flung it far into the air like blood money. The night was falling;
through an embrasure and across the gardened valley I saw the
lamplighters hasting along Princes Street with ladder and lamp, and
looked on moodily. As I was so standing a hand was laid upon my
shoulder, and I turned about. It was Major Chevenix, dressed for
the evening, and his neckcloth really admirably folded. I never