“What do you hear there?” he asked.

“I hear the thump of the engines.”

“Nothing else?”

“Nothing.  What do you hear?”

He suddenly turned away.

“I’ll tell you,” he said, “when we get on shore.”

SECOND SCENE.—­VANGE ABBEY.—­THE FOREWARNINGS

VI.

As we approached the harbor at Folkestone, Romayne’s agitation appeared to subside.  His head drooped; his eyes half closed—­he looked like a weary man quietly falling asleep.

On leaving the steamboat, I ventured to ask our charming fellow-passenger if I could be of any service in reserving places in the London train for her mother and herself.  She thanked me, and said they were going to visit some friends at Folkestone.  In making this reply, she looked at Romayne.  “I am afraid he is very ill,” she said, in gently lowered tones.  Before I could answer, her mother turned to her with an expression of surprise, and directed her attention to the friends whom she had mentioned, waiting to greet her.  Her last look, as they took her away, rested tenderly and sorrowfully on Romayne.  He never returned it—­he was not even aware of it.  As I led him to the train he leaned more and more heavily on my arm.  Seated in the carriage, he sank at once into profound sleep.

We drove to the hotel at which my friend was accustomed to reside when he was in London.  His long sleep on the journey seemed, in some degree, to have relieved him.  We dined together in his private room.  When the servants had withdrawn, I found that the unhappy result of the duel was still preying on his mind.

“The horror of having killed that man,” he said, “is more than I can bear alone.  For God’s sake, don’t leave me!”

I had received letters at Boulogne, which informed me that my wife and family had accepted an invitation to stay with some friends at the sea-side.  Under these circumstances I was entirely at his service.  Having quieted his anxiety on this point, I reminded him of what had passed between us on board the steamboat.  He tried to change the subject.  My curiosity was too strongly aroused to permit this; I persisted in helping his memory.

“We were looking into the engine-room,” I said; “and you asked me what I heard there.  You promised to tell me what you heard, as soon as we got on shore—­”

He stopped me, before I could say more.

“I begin to think it was a delusion,” he answered.  “You ought not to interpret too literally what a person in my dreadful situation may say.  The stain of another man’s blood is on me—­”

I interrupted him in my turn.  “I refuse to hear you speak of yourself in that way,” I said.  “You are no more responsible for the Frenchman’s death than if you had been driving, and had accidentally run over him in the street.  I am not the right companion for a man who talks as you do.  The proper person to be with you is a doctor.”  I really felt irritated with him—­and I saw no reason for concealing it.