the laws of sound to any great extent, and there’s a great deal in ventriloquism that we don’t know much about.”  “If it’s the same to you,” I said, “I wish you’d keep all that to yourself, Simson.  It doesn’t suit my state of mind.”  “Oh, I hope I know how to respect idiosyncrasy,” he said.  The very tone of his voice irritated me beyond measure.  These scientific fellows, I wonder people put up with them as they do, when you have no mind for their cold-blooded confidence.  Dr. Moncrieff met us about eleven o’clock, the same time as on the previous night.  He was a large man, with a venerable countenance and white hair,—­old, but in full vigor, and thinking less of a cold night walk than many a younger man.  He had his lantern, as I had.  We were fully provided with means of lighting the place, and we were all of us resolute men.  We had a rapid consultation as we went up, and the result was that we divided to different posts.  Dr. Moncrieff remained inside the wall—­if you can call that inside where there was no wall but one.  Simson placed himself on the side next the ruins, so as to intercept any communication with the old house, which was what his mind was fixed upon.  I was posted on the other side.  To say that nothing could come near without being seen was self-evident.  It had been so also on the previous night.  Now, with our three lights in the midst of the darkness, the whole place seemed illuminated.  Dr. Moncrieff’s lantern, which was a large one, without any means of shutting up,—­an old-fashioned lantern with a pierced and ornamental top,—­shone steadily, the rays shooting out of it upward into the gloom.  He placed it on the grass, where the middle of the room, if this had been a room, would have been.  The usual effect of the light streaming out of the door-way was prevented by the illumination which Simson and I on either side supplied.  With these differences, everything seemed as on the previous night.

And what occurred was exactly the same, with the same air of repetition, point for point, as I had formerly remarked.  I declare that it seemed to me as if I were pushed against, put aside, by the owner of the voice as he paced up and down in his trouble,—­though these are perfectly futile words, seeing that the stream of light from my lantern, and that from Simson’s taper, lay broad and clear, without a shadow, without the smallest break, across the entire breadth of the grass.  I had ceased even to be alarmed, for my part.  My heart was rent with pity and trouble,—­pity for the poor suffering human creature that moaned and pleaded so, and trouble for myself and my boy.  God! if I could not find any help,—­and what help could I find?—­Roland would die.