“He will be quiet, Pat,” said the stranger.  “In truth, after all, this is a mere physical malady, Mr. Fenton, and will pass away immediately, if you will only sit down and collect yourself a little.”

Fenton, however, made another unavailable attempt at struggle, and found that he was only exhausting himself to no purpose.  All at once, or rather following up his previous suspicions, he seemed to look upon the powerful individual who held him, as a person who had become suddenly invested with a new character that increased his terrors; and yet, if we may say so, almost forced him into an anxiety to suppress their manifestation.  His limbs, however, began to tremble excessively; his eyes absolutely dilated, and became filled by a sense of terror, nearly as wild as despair itself.  The transitions of his temper, however, like those of his general conduct, supervened upon each other with remarkable rapidity, and, as it were, the result of quick, warm, and inconsiderate impulses.

“Well,” he exclaimed at length, “I will be quiet, I am, I assure you, perfectly harmless; but, at the same time,” he added, sitting down, “I know that the whole dialogue between you and that awful-looking man, was a plot laid for me.  Why else did you insist on my being present at it?  This accounts for your giving me a paltry sum of money, too—­it does, sir—­and for your spurious and dishonest humanity in wishing to see me well clothed.  Yes, I perceive it all; but, let what may happen, I will not wear these clothes any longer.  They are not the offering of a generous heart, but the fraudulent pretext for insinuating yourself into my confidence, in order to—­to—­yes, but I shall not say it—­it is enough that I know you, sir—­that I see through, and penetrate your designs.”

He was about to put his threat with respect to the clothes into instant execution, when the stranger, once more seizing him, exclaimed—­“You must promise, Mr. Fenton, before you leave my grasp, that you will make no further attempt to tear off your dress.  I insist on this;” and as he spoke he fixed his eye sternly and commandingly on that of Fenton.

“I will not attempt it,” replied the latter; “I promise it, on the word of a gentleman.”

“There, then,” said the stranger—­“Keep yourself quiet, and, mark me, I shall expect that you will not violate that word, nor yield to these weak and silly paroxysms.”

Fenton merely nodded submissively, and the other proceeded, still with a view of sounding him:  “You say you know me; if so, who and what am I?”

“Do not ask me to speak at further length,” replied Fenton; “I am quite exhausted, and I know not what I said.”

He appeared now somewhat calmer, or, at least, affected to be so.  By his manner, however, it would appear that some peculiar opinion or apprehension, with reference either to the baronet or the stranger, seemed as if confirmed, whilst, at the same time, acting under one of his rapid transitions, he spoke and looked like a man who was influenced by new motives.  He then withdrew in a mood somewhat between sullenness and regret.