eps now," he asked, "does it last long?"

"Often for hours together," the nurse answered.

He said no more; he seemed to have forgotten that there was another
person in the room.

She found courage in her pity for him. "Try to pray," she said, and left
him.

He fell on his knees; but still the words failed him. He tried to quiet
his mind by holy thoughts. No! The dumb agony in him was powerless to
find relief. Only the shadows of thoughts crossed his mind; his eyes
ached with a burning heat. He began to be afraid of himself. The active
habits of the life that he had left, drove him out, with the instincts
of an animal, into space and air. Neither knowing nor caring in what
direction he turned his steps, he walked on at the top of his speed. On
and on, till the crowded houses began to grow more rare--till there were
gaps of open ground, on either side of him--till the moon rose behind
a plantation of trees, and bathed in its melancholy light a lonely high
road. He followed the road till he was tired of it, and turned aside
into a winding lane. The lights and shadows, alternating with each
other, soothed and pleased him. He had got the relief in exercise that
had been denied him while he was in repose. He could think again; he
could feel the resolution stirring in him to save that dear one, or
to die with her. Now at last, he was man enough to face the terrible
necessity that confronted him, and fight the battle of Art and Love
against Death. He stopped, and looked round; eager to return, and be
ready for her waking. In that solitary place, there was no hope of
finding a person to direct him. He turned, to go back to the high road.

At that same moment, he became conscious of the odour of tobacco wafted
towards him on the calm night air. Some one was smoking in the lane.

He retraced his steps, until he reached a gate--with a barren field
behind it. There was the man, whose tobacco smoke he had smelt, leaning
on the gate, with his pipe in his mouth.

The moonlight fell full on Ovid's face, as he approached to ask his way.
The man suddenly stood up--stared at him--and said, "Hullo! is it you or
your ghost?"

His face was in shadow, but his voice answered for him. The man was
Benjulia.

"Have you come to see me?" he asked.

"No."

"Won't you shake hands?"

"No."

"What's wrong?"

Ovid waited to answer until he had steadied his temper.

"I have seen Carmina," he said.

Benjulia went on with his smoking.