amounted to a complete unconsciousness of being, if we except an undying impression of some great evil which had befallen him, and which lay, like a grim and insatiable monster, tearing up his heart.  At length, by a violent effort, he recovered a little, became once more conscious, walked about for some time, then surveyed himself in the glass, and what between the cadaverous hue of his face and the flakes of red foam which we have described, when taken in connection with his thick, midnight brows, it need not be wondered at that he felt alarmed at the state to which he awakened.

After some time, however, he rang for Gibson, who, on seeing him, started.

“Good God, sir!” said he, quite alarmed, “whit is the matter?”

“I did not ring for you, sir,” he replied, “to ask impertinent questions.  Send Gillespie to me.”

Gibson withdrew, and in the mean time his master went to his dressing-room, where he washed himself free of the bloody evidences of his awful passions.  This being done, he returned to the library, where, in a few minutes, Gillespie attended him.”

“Gillespie,” he exclaimed, “do you fear God?”

“I hope I do, Sir Thomas, as well as another, at any rate.”

“Well, then, begone, for you are useless to me—­begone, sirrah, and get me some one that fears neither God nor devil.”

“Why, Sir Thomas,” replied the ruffian, who, having expected a job, felt anxious to retrieve himself, “as to that matter, I can’t say that I ever was overburdened with much fear of either one or other of them.  Indeed, I believe, thank goodness, I have as little religion as most people.”

“Are you sure, sirrah, that you have no conscience?”

“Why—­hem—­I have done things for your honor before, you know.  As to religion, however, I’ll stand upon having as little of it as e’er a man in the barony.  I give up to no one in a want of that commodity.”

“What proof can you afford me that you are free from it?”

“Why, blow me if I know the twelve commandments, and, besides, I was only at church three times in my life, and I fell asleep under the sermon each time; religion, sir, never agreed with me.”

“To blazon my shame!—­bad enough; but the ruin of my hopes, d—­n you, sir, how durst you publish my disgrace to the world?”

“I, your honor!  I’ll take my oath I never breathed a syllable of it; and you know yourself, sir, the man was too drunk to be able to speak or remember anything of what happened.”

“Sir, you came to mock and jeer at me; and, besides, you are a liar, she has not eloped.”

“I don’t understand you, Sir Thomas,” said Gillespie, who saw at once by his master’s disturbed and wandering eye, that the language he uttered was not addressed to him.

“What—­what,” exclaimed the latter, rising up and stretching himself, in order to call back his scattered faculties.  “Eh, Gillespie!—­what brought you here, sirrah?  Are you too come to triumph over the ambitious projector?  What am I saying?  I sent for you, Gillespie, did I not?”