and outstretched hands,
with a hurried dread of recognising some pursuer pressing forward--of
galloping away again, upon the long, long road, gathered up, dull and
stunned, in his corner, or rising to see where the moon shone faintly on
a patch of the same endless road miles away, or looking back to see who
followed.

Of never sleeping, but sometimes dozing with unclosed eyes, and
springing up with a start, and a reply aloud to an imaginary voice. Of
cursing himself for being there, for having fled, for having let her
go, for not having confronted and defied him. Of having a deadly quarrel
with the whole world, but chiefly with himself. Of blighting everything
with his black mood as he was carried on and away.

It was a fevered vision of things past and present all confounded
together; of his life and journey blended into one. Of being madly
hurried somewhere, whither he must go. Of old scenes starting up among
the novelties through which he travelled. Of musing and brooding over
what was past and distant, and seeming to take no notice of the actual
objects he encountered, but with a wearisome exhausting consciousness of
being bewildered by them, and having their images all crowded in his hot
brain after they were gone.

A vision of change upon change, and still the same monotony of bells and
wheels, and horses' feet, and no rest. Of town and country, postyards,
horses, drivers, hill and valley, light and darkness, road and pavement,
height and hollow, wet weather and dry, and still the same monotony of
bells and wheels, and horses' feet, and no rest. A vision of tending
on at last, towards the distant capital, by busier roads, and sweeping
round, by old cathedrals, and dashing through small towns and villages,
less thinly scattered on the road than formerly, and sitting shrouded in
his corner, with his cloak up to his face, as people passing by looked
at him.

Of rolling on and on, always postponing thought, and always racked with
thinking; of being unable to reckon up the hours he had been upon the
road, or to comprehend the points of time and place in his journey. Of
being parched and giddy, and half mad. Of pressing on, in spite of all,
as if he could not stop, and coming into Paris, where the turbid river
held its swift course undisturbed, between two brawling streams of life
and motion.

A troubled vision, then, of bridges, quays, interminable streets; of
wine-shops, water-carriers, great crowds of people, s