one tremendous explosion and
victory of natural force. There had come into his head of late a new
sensation, as of busy fingers weaving threads within his skull and iron
hands moulding the matter of his brain into new patterns. The demon
things responsible for his torment only slept when he slept, or when, as
had happened once or twice, he drank himself indifferent to all mundane
matters. Yet he could not still them for long, and even Phoebe had heard
mutterings and threats of the thread-spinners who were driving her
husband mad.

On an evening in late May she became seriously alarmed for his reason.
Circumstances suddenly combined to strangle the last flickering breath
of patience in Will, and the slender barriers were swept away in such a
storm as even Phoebe's wide experience of him had never parallelled.
Miller Lyddon was out, at a meeting in the village convened to determine
after what fashion Chagford should celebrate the Sovereign's Jubilee;
Billy also departed about private concerns, and Will and his wife had
Monks Barton much to themselves. Even she irritated the suffering man at
this season, and her sunken face and chatter about her own condition and
future hopes of a son often worried him into sheer frenzy. His promise
once exacted she rarely touched upon that matter, believing the less
said the better, but he misunderstood her reticence and held it selfish.
Indeed, Blanchard fretted and chafed alone now; for John Grimbal's
sustained silence had long ago convinced Mr. Lyddon that the master of
the Red House meant no active harm, and Phoebe readily grasped at the
same conclusion.

This night, however, the flood-gates crumbled, and Will, before a futile
assertion from Phoebe touching the happy promise of the time to come and
the cheerful spring weather, dashed down his pipe with an oath, clenched
his hands, then leapt to his feet, shook his head, and strode about like
a maniac.

"Will! You've brawk un to shivers--the butivul wood pipe wi' amber that
I gived 'e last birthday!"

"Damn my birthday--a wisht day for me 't was! I've lived tu long--tu
long by all my years, an' nobody cares wan salt tear that I be roastin'
in hell-fire afore my time. I caan't stand it no more--no more at
all--not for you or your faither or angels in heaven or ten million
babies to be born into this blasted world--not if I was faither to 'em
all. I must live my life free, or else I'll go in a madhouse. Free--do
'e hear me? I've suf