He heard him, as he thought, walking in his slippers through the room, and making his customary arrangements previously to getting into bed.  He knew that his master had a habit of speaking when alone, and concluded that the accidental breakage of some glass or chimney-ornament had elicited the volley of words he had heard.  Well knowing that, except at the usual hours, or in obedience to Sir Wynston’s bell, nothing more displeased his master than his presuming to enter his sleeping-apartment while he was there, the servant quietly retreated, and, perfectly satisfied that all was right, composed himself to slumber, and was soon beginning to dose again.

The adventures of the night, however, were not yet over.  Waking, as men sometimes do, without any ascertainable cause; without a start or an uneasy sensation; without even a disturbance of the attitude of repose, he opened his eyes and beheld Merton, the servant of whom we have spoken, standing at a little distance from his bed.  The moonlight fell in a clear flood upon this figure:  the man was ghastly pale; there was a blotch of blood on his face; his hands were clasped upon something which they nearly concealed; and his eyes, fixed on the servant who had just awakened, shone in the cold light with a wild and lifeless glitter.  This specter drew close to the side of the bed, and stood for a few moments there with a look of agony and menace, which startled the newly-awakened man, who rose upright, and said—­

“Mr. Merton, Mr. Merton—­in God’s name, what is the matter?”

Merton recoiled at the sound of his voice; and, as he did so, dropped something on the floor, which rolled away to a distance; and he stood gazing silently and horribly upon his interrogator.

“Mr. Merton, I say, what is it?” urged the man.  “Are you hurt?  Your face is bloody.”

Merton raised his hand to his face mechanically, and Sir Wynston’s man observed that it, too, was covered with blood.

“Why, man,” he said, vehemently, and actually freezing with horror, “you are all bloody; hands and face; all over blood.”

“My hand is cut to the bone,” said Merton, in a harsh whisper; and speaking to himself, rather than addressing the servant—­“I wish it was my neck; I wish to God I bled to death.”

“You have hurt your hand, Mr. Merton,” repeated the man, scarce knowing what he said.

“Aye,” whispered Merton, wildly drawing toward the bedside again; “who told you I hurt my hand?  It is cut to the bone, sure enough.”

He stooped for a moment over the bed, and then cowered down toward the floor to search for what he had dropped.

“Why, Mr. Merton, what brings you here at this hour?” urged the man, after a pause of a few seconds.  “It is drawing toward morning.”

“Aye, aye,” said Merton, doubtfully, and starting upright again, while he concealed in his bosom what he had been in search of.  “Near morning, is it?  Night and morning, it is all one to me.  I believe I am going mad, by—­”