candle, he would draw out the gorse-boughs, and place them on the floor, and taking off his nightgown, gently lay himself down on the bed of thorns and spines.  Lying on his face, with the candle and the book before him, he would softly and tenderly repeat the praises of his dear, dear Annie, and as he turned over page after page, and saw the raised gold of the majuscules glow and flame in the candle-light, he pressed the thorns into his flesh.  At such moments he tasted in all its acute savor the joy of physical pain; and after two or three experiences of such delights he altered his book, making a curious sign in vermilion on the margin of the passages where he was to inflict on himself this sweet torture.  Never did he fail to wake at the appointed hour, a strong effort of will broke through all the heaviness of sleep, and he would rise up, joyful though weeping, and reverently set his thorny bed upon the floor, offering his pain with his praise.  When he had whispered the last word, and had risen from the ground, his body would be all freckled with drops of blood; he used to view the marks with pride.  Here and there a spine would be left deep in the flesh, and he would pull these out roughly, tearing through the skin.  On some nights when he had pressed with more fervor on the thorns his thighs would stream with blood, red beads standing out on the flesh, and trickling down to his feet.  He had some difficulty in washing away the bloodstains so as not to leave any traces to attract the attention of the servant; and after a time he returned no more to his bed when his duty had been accomplished.  For a coverlet he had a dark rug, a good deal worn, and in this he would wrap his naked bleeding body, and lie down on the hard floor, well content to add an aching rest to the account of his pleasures.  He was covered with scars, and those that healed during the day were torn open afresh at night; the pale olive skin was red with the angry marks of blood, and the graceful form of the young man appeared like the body of a tortured martyr.  He grew thinner and thinner every day, for he ate but little; the skin was stretched on the bones of his face, and the black eyes burnt in dark purple hollows.  His relations noticed that he was not looking well.

“Now, Lucian, it’s perfect madness of you to go on like this,” said Miss Deacon, one morning at breakfast.  “Look how your hand shakes; some people would say that you have been taking brandy.  And all that you want is a little medicine, and yet you won’t be advised.  You know it’s not my fault; I have asked you to try Dr. Jelly’s Cooling Powders again and again.”

He remembered the forcible exhibition of the powders when he was a boy, and felt thankful that those days were over.  He only grinned at his cousin and swallowed a great cup of strong tea to steady his nerves, which were shaky enough.  Mrs. Dixon saw him one day in Caermaen; it was very hot, and he had been walking rather fast.  The scars on his body burnt and tingled, and he tottered as he raised his hat to the vicar’s wife.  She decided without further investigation that he must have been drinking in public-houses.