r: all your hard words have left me smiling; judge
then, which of us is the philosopher!"

Somerset was a young man of a very tolerant disposition and by nature
easily amenable to sophistry. He threw up his hands with a gesture of
despair, and took the seat to which the conspirator invited him. The
meal was excellent; the host not only affable, but primed with curious
information. He seemed, indeed, like one who had too long endured the
torture of silence, to exult in the most wholesale disclosures. The
interest of what he had to tell was great; his character, besides,
developed step by step; and Somerset, as the time fled, not only outgrew
some of the discomfort of his false position, but began to regard the
conspirator with a familiarity that verged upon contempt. In any
circumstances, he had a singular inability to leave the society in which
he found himself; company, even if distasteful, held him captive like a
limed sparrow; and on this occasion, he suffered hour to follow hour,
was easily persuaded to sit down once more to table, and did not even
attempt to withdraw till, on the approach of evening, Zero, with many
apologies, dismissed his guest. His fellow-conspirators, the dynamiter
handsomely explained, as they were unacquainted with the sterling
qualities of the young man, would be alarmed at the sight of a strange
face.

As soon as he was alone, Somerset fell back upon the humour of the
morning. He raged at the thought of his facility; he paced the
dining-room, forming the sternest resolutions for the future; he wrung
the hand which had been dishonoured by the touch of an assassin; and
among all these whirling thoughts, there flashed in from time to time,
and ever with a chill of fear, the thought of the confounded ingredients
with which the house was stored. A powder magazine seemed a secure
smoking-room alongside of the Superfluous Mansion.

He sought refuge in flight, in locomotion, in the flowing bowl. As long
as the bars were open, he travelled from one to another, seeking light,
safety, and the companionship of human faces; when these resources
failed him, he fell back on the belated baked-potato man; and at length,
still pacing the streets, he was goaded to fraternise with the police.
Alas, with what a sense of guilt he conversed with these guardians of
the law; how gladly had he wept upon their ample bosoms; and how the
secret fluttered to his lips and was still denied an exit! Fatigue began
at las