asylum twenty-five years ago. They called them idiots.
Idiots! God help us!"

That strange light seemed to kindle in his eyes again while
he was speaking, and it conveyed anything but a cheerful
suggestion to my mind.

"There is this difference between idiots and madmen," he
continued. "The former are born outside the pale of human
sympathy; the latter overstep it. In either case they are
not of this earth--they are embodied spirits living in a
world of their own creation, biding the time of liberation
from the flesh. And do you know, there are more madmen in
the world than it dreams of?"

He stopped with a tone of sharp interrogation and looked
squarely into my face.

"There are undoubtedly many of them," said I.

"The lines of monomania all lead to madness," he continued.
"The deeper one plunges into the mysteries of life the
nearer he approaches it. But, mark you, one man may venture
further than another. For years I have lived in fear of two
things--madness and death. Not on my account, but I had
Rayel to think of."

My uncle rose to his feet before he had ceased speaking and
walked stealthily on his tiptoes to an open door, where he
stood for a moment listening. I could hear nothing but the