is diabolism run mad!" I filled his glass with wine. "Surely, now that
you've SEEN the brute--"

"It's no good abusing him."

"You must admit there's nothing Miltonic about him, Soames."

"I don't say he's not rather different from what I expected."

"He's a vulgarian, he's a swell mobs-man, he's the sort of man who
hangs about the corridors of trains going to the Riviera and steals ladies'
jewel-cases. Imagine eternal torment presided over by HIM!"

"You don't suppose I look forward to it, do you?"

"Then why not slip quietly out of the way?"

Again and again I filled his glass, and always, mechanically, he
emptied it; but the wine kindled no spark of enterprise in him. He did
not eat, and I myself ate hardly at all. I did not in my heart believe that
any dash for freedom could save him. The chase would be swift, the
capture certain. But better anything than this passive, meek, miserable
waiting. I told Soames that for the honor of the human race he ought to
make some show of resistance. He asked what the human race had ever
done for him. "Besides," he said, "can't you understand that I'm in his
power? You saw him touch me, didn't you? There's an end of it. I've no
will. I'm sealed."

I made a gesture of despair. He went on repeating the word
"sealed." I began to realize that the wine had clouded his brain. No