“Doctor Glyphic,—­is he here? is he alive?”

He felt a morbid curiosity to hear what reply would be made to the question whose answer only he could know.  But he was puzzled to observe that it appeared to throw Nurse into a state of agitation as great as though she had herself been the perpetrator of Balder’s crime!  She stood quaking and irresolute, now peeping for a moment from behind her screen, then dodging back with an increase of panic.

This display—­rendered more uncouth by its voicelessness—­revolted the aesthetic sensibilities of Helwyse.  Besides, what was the meaning of it?  Had it actually been Davy Jones with whom he had striven on the midnight sea? and had his adversary, instead of drowning, spread his bat-wings for home, and left his supposititious murderer to disquiet himself in vain?  Verily, a practical joke worthy its author!

This conceit revealed others, as a lightning-flash the midnight landscape.  Balder was encircled by witchcraft,—­had been ferried by a real Charon to no imaginary Hades.  The quaint secluded beauty of circumstance was an illusion, soon to be dispelled.  Gnulemah herself—­miserable thought!—­was perhaps a thing of evil; what if this very hag were she in another form?  Glancing round in the deepening twilight, Balder fancied the dark, still plants and tropic shrubs assumed demoniac forms, bending and crowding about him.  The old witch yonder was muttering some infernal spell; already he felt numbness in his limbs, dizziness in his brain.

The devils are gathering nearer.  A heavy, heated atmosphere quivers before his eyes, or else the witch and her unholy crew are uniting in a reeling dance.  In vain does Balder try to shut his eyes and escape the giddy spectacle; they stare widely open and see things supernatural.  Nor can he ward off these with his hands, which are rigid before him, and defy his will.  The devilish jig becomes wilder, and careers through the air, Balder sweeping with it.  In mid-whirl, he sees the crocodile,—­cold, motionless, waiting with long, dry jaws—­for what?

A cry breaks from him.  With a wrench that strains his heart he bursts loose from the devil’s bonds that confine his limbs.  The witch has vanished, and Helwyse seems to himself to fall headlong from a vast height, striking the earth at last helpless and broken.

“Gnulemah!”

Gasping out that name, he becomes insensible.

Beneath an outside of respectable composure have turmoiled the tides of such remorse and pain as only a man at once largely and finely made can feel.  Added to the mental excitement carried through many phases to the point of distraction, have been bodily exertion and want of food and sleep.  The apparition of unnatural ugliness, of behavior strange as her looks, coming upon him in this untoward condition, needed not the heat of the conservatory and stupefying perfume of the flowers to bring on the brief delirium and final unconsciousness.  As he lies there let us remember that his last word threw back the unworthy, dark misgiving, that beauty and deformity, good and bad, could by any jugglery become convertible.