urrent of his madness.
"Gillespie, man, what's wrong? I don't seem able to think.
Who--are--you? Who--in the world--are you? Gillespie! O Gillespie! I'm
going mad! Am I going mad? Help me, Rufus! Why can't you help me? It's
coming after me! See it! The hideous thing!" Tears started from his
burning eyes and his brow was knotted hard as whipcord.

"Look! It's there!" he screamed, pointing to the fire, and he darted to
the door, where I caught him. He fought off my grasp with maniacal
strength, and succeeded in flinging open the door. Then I forgot this
man was more than brother to me, and threw myself upon him as against an
enemy, determined to have the mastery. The bleak wind roared through the
open blackness of the doorway, and on the ground outside were shadows of
two struggling, furious men. I saw the terrified faces of Little Fellow
and La Robe Noire peering through the dark, and felt wet beads start
from every pore in my body. Both of us were panting like fagged racers.
One of us was fighting blindly, raining down aimless blows, I know not
which, but I think it must have been Hamilton, for he presently sank in
my arms, limp and helpless as a sick child.

Somehow I got him between the robes of my floor mattress. Drawing a box
to the bedside I again took his hands between mine and prepared for a
night's watch.

He raved in a low, indistinct tone, muttering Miriam's name again and
again, and tossing his head restlessly from side to side. Then he fell
into a troubled sleep. The supper lay untouched. Torches had burned
black out. One tallow candle, that I had extravagantly put among some
evergreens--our poor decorations for Christmas Eve--sputtered low and
threw ghostly, branching shadows across the lodge. I slipped from the
sick man's side, heaped more logs on the fire and stretched out between
robes before the hearth. In the play of the flame Hamilton's face seemed
suddenly and strangely calm. Was it the dim light, I wonder. The
furrowed lines of sorrow seemed to fade, leaving the peaceful,
transparent purity of the dead. I could not but associate the branched
shadows on the wall with legends of death keeping guard over the dying.
The shadow by his pillow gradually assumed vague, awesome shape. I sat
up and rubbed my eyes. Was this an illusion, or was I, too, going mad?
The filmy thing distinctly wavered and receded a little into the dark.

An unspeakable fear chilled my veins. Then I could have laughed defiance
a