rmitted a spirit to rise from the very grave to proclaim
his lie, and to show the truth in a most hideous form? He could almost
believe so. It seemed that the dead boy resented the defacement of his
tomb, resented the deliberate untruth which concealed from the painter
his dreary destiny, and came up out of the other world to proclaim the
clergyman's deception. It seemed as if God himself fought with a
miraculous means the battle of truth and tore aside the veil in which
Uniacke had sought to shroud the actuality of death. Uniacke could not
bring himself to speak to the painter, to acknowledge the trickery
resorted to for a sick man's sake. But this vision of the night
paralysed his power to make any further effort in deception. He felt
benumbed and impotent. A Power invisible to him fought against him. He
could only lay down his weapons,--despicable, unworthy, as they
were,--and let things take their course, while he looked on as one in a
sad dream, apprehensive of the ending of that dream.

Sir Graham began his picture on the morrow. His first excitement in the
conception of it, which had been almost joyous, was now become feverish
and terrible. He was seized by the dreary passion of the gifted man who
means to use his gifts to add new and vital horrors to the horrors of
life. He no longer felt the pathos, the almost exquisite romance, of his
subject. He felt only its tragic, its disgusting terror. While he
painted feverishly the mad Skipper hovered about him, with eyes still
vacant but a manner of increasing unrest. It seemed as if something
whispered to him that this work of a stranger had some connection with
his life, some deep, though as yet undiscovered, meaning for him. The
first figure in the picture was the Skipper himself. When it was painted
the likeness was striking. But the poor mad seaman stared upon it with
an ignorant vagueness. It was evident that he looked without seeing,
that he observed without comprehending.

"Surely he will not know Jack," Uniacke thought, "since he does not know
his own face."

And he felt a faint sense of relief. But this passed away, for the
unrest of the Skipper seemed continually to grow more marked and
seething. Uniacke noticed it with gathering anxiety. Sir Graham did not
observe it. He thought of nothing but his work.

"I shall paint Jack last of all," he said grimly, to Uniacke. "I mean to
make a crescendo of horror, and in Jack's figure the loathsomeness of
death sh