I told myself this was mere superstition; I made wagers with myself—­and gained them; I went down on the esplanade of Princes Street, walked and stood there, alone and conspicuous, looking across the garden at the old grey bastions of the fortress, where all these troubles had begun.  I cocked my hat, set my hand on my hip, and swaggered on the pavement, confronting detection.  And I found I could do all this with a sense of exhilaration that was not unpleasing, and with a certain cranerie of manner that raised me in my own esteem.  And yet there was one thing I could not bring my mind to face up to, or my limbs to execute; and that was to cross the valley into the Old Town.  It seemed to me I must be arrested immediately if I had done so; I must go straight into the twilight of a prison cell, and pass straight thence to the gross and final embraces of the nightcap and the halter.  And yet it was from no reasoned fear of the consequences that I could not go.  I was unable.  My horse baulked, and there was an end!

My nerve was gone:  here was a discovery for a man in such imminent peril, set down to so desperate a game, which I could only hope to win by continual luck and unflagging effrontery!  The strain had been too long continued, and my nerve was gone.  I fell into what they call panic fear, as I have seen soldiers do on the alarm of a night attack, and turned out of Princes Street at random as though the devil were at my heels.  In St. Andrew Square, I remember vaguely hearing some one call out.  I paid no heed, but pressed on blindly.  A moment after, a hand fell heavily on my shoulder, and I thought I had fainted.  Certainly the world went black about me for some seconds; and when that spasm passed I found myself standing face to face with the ‘cheerful extravagant,’ in what sort of disarray I really dare not imagine, dead white at least, shaking like an aspen, and mowing at the man with speechless lips.  And this was the soldier of Napoleon, and the gentleman who intended going next night to an Assembly Ball!  I am the more particular in telling of my breakdown, because it was my only experience of the sort; and it is a good tale for officers.  I will allow no man to call me coward; I have made my proofs; few men more.  And yet I (come of the best blood in France and inured to danger from a child) did, for some ten or twenty minutes, make this hideous exhibition of myself on the streets of the New Town of Edinburgh.

With my first available breath I begged his pardon.  I was of an extremely nervous disposition, recently increased by late hours; I could not bear the slightest start.

He seemed much concerned.  ‘You must be in a devil of a state!’ said he; ’though of course it was my fault—­damnably silly, vulgar sort of thing to do!  A thousand apologies!  But you really must be run down; you should consult a medico.  My dear sir, a hair of the dog that bit you is clearly indicated.  A touch of Blue Ruin, now?  Or, come:  it’s early, but is man the slave of hours? what do you say to a chop and a bottle in Dumbreck’s Hotel?’