“With all my skill, and all a leal man’s gentleness, I solaced and persuaded, and made an oath, and conducted her back to her own chamber unperceived.  How weak is sleep!...  It was a habit, sir, contracted in childhood, long dormant, that Evil had woke again.  The Past awaits us all.  So run Time’s sands, till mercy’s globe is empty and ...”

He stooped and whispered it across to me:  “...  A child, a comparative child, shrunk to an anatomy, her beauty changed, ghostly of youth and all its sadness, baffled by a word, slave to a doctor’s nod!  None knew but I, and, at the last, one of her ladies—­a gentle, faithful, and fearful creature.  Nor she till far beyond all mischief....

“Wild deeds are done.  But to have blood on the hands, a cry in the ears, and one same glassy face eye to eye, that nothing can dim, nor even slumber pacify—­dreams, dreams, intangible, enorm!  Forefend them, God, from me!”

He stood a moment as if he were listening; then turned, smiling irresolutely, and eyed me aimlessly.  He seemed afraid of his own house, askance at his own furniture.  Yet, though I scarce know why, I felt he had not told me the whole truth.  Something fidelity had yet withheld from vanity.  I longed to enquire further.  I put aside how many burning questions awhile!

XIV

    And if we gang to sea, master,
    I fear we’ll come to harm.

    —­OLD BALLAD.

By and by less anxious talk soothed him.  Indeed it was he who suggested one last bright draught of air beneath his trees before retiring.  Down we went again with some unnecessary clatter.  And here were stars between the fruited boughs, silvery Capella and the Twins, and low on the sky’s moonlit border Venus excellently bright.

He asked me whither I proposed going, if I needs must go; besought there and then in the ambrosial night-air the history of my wanderings—­a mere nine days’ wonder; and told me how he himself much feared and hated the sea.

He questioned me also with not a little subtilty (and double-dealing too, I fancied,) regarding my own country, and of things present, and things real.  In fact nothing, I think, so much flattered his vanity—­unless it was my wonder at Dame Partlett’s clucking on his viol-strings—­as to learn himself was famous even so far as to ages yet unborn.  He gazed on the simple moon with limpid, amiable eyes, and caught my fingers in his.

How, then, could I even so much as hint to enquire which century indeed was his, who had no need of any?  How could I abash that kindly vanity of his by adding also that, however famous, he must needs be to all eternity—­nameless?

We conversed long and earnestly in the coolness.  He very frankly counselled me not to venture unconducted further into this country.  The land of Tragedy was broad.  And though on this side it lay adjacent to the naive and civil people of Comedy; on the further, in the shadow of those bleak, unfooted mountains, lurked unnatural horror and desolation, and cruelty beyond all telling.