o to. When his mind seemed clear
enough to give some account of himself, he was incoherent and bewildered
in the few statements he made. He did not answer to his own name, Jean
Merle; and he appeared incapable of understanding even a simple
question. That his brain had been, perhaps, permanently affected by the
fever was highly probable.

When at length the authorities of the hospital were obliged to discharge
him, a purse was made up for him, containing enough money to keep him
in his own station for the next three months.

By this time Jean Merle was no longer confused and unintelligible when
he opened his lips, but he very rarely uttered a word beyond what was
absolutely necessary. He appeared to the physicians attending him to be
bent on recollecting something that had occurred in the past before his
brain gave way. His face was always preoccupied and moody, and scarcely
any sound would catch his ear and make him lift up his head. There must
be mania somewhere, but it could not be discovered.

"Have you any plans for the future, Merle?" he was asked the day he was
discharged as cured.

"Yes, Monsieur," he replied; "I am a wood-carver by trade."

"And where are you going to now?" was the next question.

"I must go to Engelberg," answered Merle, with a shudder.

"Ah! to Monsieur Nicodemus; then," said the doctor, "you must be a good
hand at your work to please him, my good fellow."

"I am a good hand," replied Merle.

The valley of Engelberg lies high, and is little more than a cleft in
the huge mass of mountains; a narrow gap where storms gather, and bring
themselves into a focus. In the summer thunder-clouds draw together, and
fill up the whole valley, while rain falls in torrents, and the streams
war and rage along their stony channels. But when Jean Merle returned to
it in March, after four months' absence, the valley was covered with
snow stretching up to the summits of the mountains around it, save only
where the rocks were too precipitous for it to lodge.

He had come back to Engelberg because there was the grave of the
friendless man who bore his former name. It had a fascination for him,
this grave, where he was supposed to be at rest. The handsome granite
cross, bearing only the name of Roland Sefton and the date of his death,
attracted him, and held him by an irresistible spell. At first, in the
strange weakness of his mind, he could hardly believe but that he was
dead, and this inexplicable seco