istakable perception of--an attribute--a quality--of another
sort--of a power, of which he, Harold Dartmouth, had never been
conscious--of--of--ah, yes! of the power to pour out at the feet of
that woman, in richest verse, the love she had awakened, and make them
both immortal. What were the words? They had been written legibly in
his brain; he remembered now. He had seen and read them--yes, at last,
at last! "Her face! her form!" No! no! not that again. Oh, why would
they not come? They had been there, the words; the sense must be
there, the inspiration, the battling for voice and victory. They were
ready to pour through his speech in a flood of song, but that iron
hand forced them back--down, down, setting blood and brain on fire.
Ah! what was that? Far off, at the end of some long gallery, there
was a sweet, dying strain of music, and there were words--gathering in
volume; they were rolling on; they were coming; they were thundering
through his brain in a mighty chorus! There! he had grasped them--No!
that iron hand had grasped them--and was hurling them back. In another
moment it would have forced them down into their cell and turned
the key! He must catch and hold one of them! Yes, he had it! Oh!
victory!--"Her eyes, her hair."

Dartmouth thrust out his hands as if fighting with a physical enemy,
and he looked as if he had been through the agonies of death. The
conflict in his brain had suddenly ceased, but his physical strength
was exhausted. He turned and walked uncertainly to his room; then he
collected his scattered wits sufficiently to drop some laudanum and
take it, that he might ward off, if possible, the attack of physical
and spiritual prostration which had been the result of a former
experience of a similar kind. Then, dressed as he was, he flung
himself on the bed and slept.

VIII.

When Dartmouth awoke the next day, the sun was streaming across the
bed and Jones's anxious face was bending over him.

"Oh, Mr. 'Arold," exclaimed Jones, "you've got it again."

Dartmouth laughed aloud. "One would think I had delirium tremens," he
said.

He put his hand over his eyes, and struggled with the desire to have
the room darkened. The melancholy had fastened itself upon him, and he
knew that for three or four days he was to be the victim of one of
his unhappiest moods. The laudanum had lulled his brain and prevented
violent reaction after its prolonged tension; but his spirits were at
zero, and his