ad been clear and
keen, and expressive of an active, vigorous brain behind them. At
present they were wandering, weak and watery, altogether lacking in
lustre or expression. They told their sad tale with piteous brevity. The
brain was active and vigorous no longer, or, if still active, was so to
no definite purpose. The spark of reason was for the time quenched
within him. His oratory and his writings were no longer to be dreaded.
The man whose large presence had once carried about with it unmistakable
evidences of physical and mental power had been reduced to a physical
and mental wreck. No man in that closely-packed court-room was now more
harmless than he. The Compact had indeed set an indelible mark upon
him--a mark which he was to carry to his grave, for during the
forty-four years of life that remained to him he was never again the
Robert Gourlay of old, and was subject to periodical seasons of mental
aberration.

And yet, as he stood there trembling and distraught, with that sea of
faces turned upon him, he was not altogether without some glimmering of
reason. He was at least passively conscious, like one in a troubled
dream, of what was going on around him. He realized, in a misty, dazed
sort of fashion that he was on his trial; but, cudgel his memory how he
would, he could not recall the nature of his alleged offence. The fact
is that, though no stimulant had passed his lips, he was in a state that
can only be characterized as one of intoxication. We know, on undoubted
authority, that very emotional persons are sometimes intoxicated by a
plate of soup, and that invalids have become tipsy upon eating their
first beefsteak after convalescence. Mr. Gourlay was endowed with an
enthusiastic, exuberant nature, which required to be kept in subjection
by abundant exercise. Up to the time of his imprisonment he had led an
active out-of-door life, whereby the demon of nervousness within him had
been kept at bay. But long-continued confinement in a close cell,
deprivation of fresh air and suitable exercise, had hindered his
exuberance from finding vent. His mind had been thrown back upon
itself. He had not been permitted to confer with his friends, except
under such restrictions as made converse intolerable. He had been kept
in such a state of nervous tension that he had had no appetite, and had
eaten scarcely any food. His sleep had been broken by mental discomfort,
and he had sometimes lain the whole night through witho