near one o'clock. The storm had a little subsided, and I took a less
agitated and more confident view of Uncle Silas than I had at an earlier
hour of that evening.

'And what do you think of him?' I asked.

Lady Knollys drummed on the table with her finger points as she looked into
the fire.

'I don't understand metaphysics, my dear, nor witchcraft. I sometimes
believe in the supernatural, and sometimes I don't. Silas Ruthyn is himself
alone, and I can't define him, because I don't understand him. Perhaps
other souls than human are sometimes born into the world, and clothed in
flesh. It is not only about that dreadful occurrence, but nearly always
throughout his life; early and late he has puzzled me. I have tried in vain
to understand him. But at one time of his life I am sure he was awfully
wicked--eccentric indeed in his wickedness--gay, frivolous, secret, and
dangerous. At one time I think he could have made poor Austin do almost
anything; but his influence vanished with his marriage, never to return
again. No; I don't understand him. He always bewildered me, like a shifting
face, sometimes smiling, but always sinister, in an unpleasant dream.'

CHAPTER XXVIII

_I AM PERSUADED_

So now at last I had heard the story of Uncle Silas's mysterious disgrace.
We sat silent for a while, and I, gazing into vacancy, sent him in a
chariot of triumph, chapletted, ringed, and robed through the city of
imagination, crying after him, 'Innocent! innocent! martyr and crowned!'
All the virtues and honesties, reason and conscience, in myriad
shapes--tier above tier of human faces--from the crowded pavement, crowded
windows, crowded roofs, joined in the jubilant acclamation, and trumpeters
trumpeted, and drums rolled, and great organs and choirs through open
cathedral gates, rolled anthems of praise and thanksgiving, and the bells
rang out, and cannons sounded, and the air trembled with the roaring
harmony; and Silas Ruthyn, the full-length portrait, stood in the burnished
chariot, with a proud, sad, clouded face, that rejoiced not with the
rejoicers, and behind him the slave, thin as a ghost, white-faced, and
sneering something in his ear: while I and all the city went on crying
'Innocent! innocent! martyr and crowned!' And now the reverie was ended;
and there were only Lady Knollys' stern, thoughtful face, with the pale
light of sarcasm on it, and the storm outside thundering and lamenting
desolately.

It was very goo