moderne wohnzimmer mit erker

chapter 8.mina murray's journal same day, 11 o'clock p.m.--oh, but i amtired! if it were not that i had made my diary aduty i should not open it tonight. we had a lovely walk. lucy, after a while, was in gay spirits,owing, i think, to some dear cows who came nosing towards us in a field close to thelighthouse, and frightened the wits out of us. i believe we forgot everything, except ofcourse, personal fear, and it seemed to wipe the slate clean and give us a freshstart.

we had a capital 'severe tea' at robinhood's bay in a sweet little old-fashioned inn, with a bow window right over theseaweed-covered rocks of the strand. i believe we should have shocked the 'newwoman' with our appetites. men are more tolerant, bless them! then we walked home with some, or rathermany, stoppages to rest, and with our hearts full of a constant dread of wildbulls. lucy was really tired, and we intended tocreep off to bed as soon as we could. the young curate came in, however, and mrs.westenra asked him to stay for supper. lucy and i had both a fight for it with thedusty miller.

i know it was a hard fight on my part, andi am quite heroic. i think that some day the bishops must gettogether and see about breeding up a new class of curates, who don't take supper, nomatter how hard they may be pressed to, and who will know when girls are tired. lucy is asleep and breathing softly.she has more colour in her cheeks than usual, and looks, oh so sweet. if mr. holmwood fell in love with herseeing her only in the drawing room, i wonder what he would say if he saw her now. some of the 'new women' writers will someday start an idea that men and women should

be allowed to see each other asleep beforeproposing or accepting. but i suppose the 'new woman' won'tcondescend in future to accept. she will do the proposing herself.and a nice job she will make of it too! there's some consolation in that. i am so happy tonight, because dear lucyseems better. i really believe she has turned the corner,and that we are over her troubles with dreaming. i should be quite happy if i only knew ifjonathan... god bless and keep him.11 august.--diary again.

no sleep now, so i may as well write. i am too agitated to sleep.we have had such an adventure, such an agonizing experience.i fell asleep as soon as i had closed my diary... suddenly i became broad awake, and sat up,with a horrible sense of fear upon me, and of some feeling of emptiness around me.the room was dark, so i could not see lucy's bed. i stole across and felt for her.the bed was empty. i lit a match and found that she was not inthe room.

the door was shut, but not locked, as i hadleft it. i feared to wake her mother, who has beenmore than usually ill lately, so threw on some clothes and got ready to look for her. as i was leaving the room it struck me thatthe clothes she wore might give me some clue to her dreaming intention.dressing-gown would mean house, dress outside. dressing-gown and dress were both in theirplaces. "thank god," i said to myself, "she cannotbe far, as she is only in her nightdress." i ran downstairs and looked in the sittingroom.

not there! then i looked in all the other rooms of thehouse, with an ever-growing fear chilling my heart.finally, i came to the hall door and found it open. it was not wide open, but the catch of thelock had not caught. the people of the house are careful to lockthe door every night, so i feared that lucy must have gone out as she was. there was no time to think of what mighthappen. a vague over-mastering fear obscured alldetails.

i took a big, heavy shawl and ran out. the clock was striking one as i was in thecrescent, and there was not a soul in sight. i ran along the north terrace, but couldsee no sign of the white figure which i expected. at the edge of the west cliff above thepier i looked across the harbour to the east cliff, in the hope or fear, i don'tknow which, of seeing lucy in our favourite seat. there was a bright full moon, with heavyblack, driving clouds, which threw the

whole scene into a fleeting diorama oflight and shade as they sailed across. for a moment or two i could see nothing, asthe shadow of a cloud obscured st. mary's church and all around it. then as the cloud passed i could see theruins of the abbey coming into view, and as the edge of a narrow band of light as sharpas a sword-cut moved along, the church and churchyard became gradually visible. whatever my expectation was, it was notdisappointed, for there, on our favourite seat, the silver light of the moon struck ahalf-reclining figure, snowy white. the coming of the cloud was too quick forme to see much, for shadow shut down on

light almost immediately, but it seemed tome as though something dark stood behind the seat where the white figure shone, andbent over it. what it was, whether man or beast, i couldnot tell. i did not wait to catch another glance, butflew down the steep steps to the pier and along by the fish-market to the bridge,which was the only way to reach the east cliff. the town seemed as dead, for not a soul didi see. i rejoiced that it was so, for i wanted nowitness of poor lucy's condition. the time and distance seemed endless, andmy knees trembled and my breath came

laboured as i toiled up the endless stepsto the abbey. i must have gone fast, and yet it seemed tome as if my feet were weighted with lead, and as though every joint in my body wererusty. when i got almost to the top i could seethe seat and the white figure, for i was now close enough to distinguish it eventhrough the spells of shadow. there was undoubtedly something, long andblack, bending over the half-reclining white figure.i called in fright, "lucy! lucy!" and something raised a head, andfrom where i was i could see a white face and red, gleaming eyes.lucy did not answer, and i ran on to the

entrance of the churchyard. as i entered, the church was between me andthe seat, and for a minute or so i lost sight of her. when i came in view again the cloud hadpassed, and the moonlight struck so brilliantly that i could see lucy halfreclining with her head lying over the back of the seat. she was quite alone, and there was not asign of any living thing about. when i bent over her i could see that shewas still asleep. her lips were parted, and she wasbreathing, not softly as usual with her,

but in long, heavy gasps, as thoughstriving to get her lungs full at every breath. as i came close, she put up her hand in hersleep and pulled the collar of her nightdress close around her, as though shefelt the cold. i flung the warm shawl over her, and drewthe edges tight around her neck, for i dreaded lest she should get some deadlychill from the night air, unclad as she was. i feared to wake her all at once, so, inorder to have my hands free to help her, i fastened the shawl at her throat with a bigsafety pin.

but i must have been clumsy in my anxietyand pinched or pricked her with it, for by- and-by, when her breathing became quieter,she put her hand to her throat again and moaned. when i had her carefully wrapped up i putmy shoes on her feet, and then began very gently to wake her. at first she did not respond, but graduallyshe became more and more uneasy in her sleep, moaning and sighing occasionally. at last, as time was passing fast, and formany other reasons, i wished to get her home at once, i shook her forcibly, tillfinally she opened her eyes and awoke.

she did not seem surprised to see me, as,of course, she did not realize all at once where she was. lucy always wakes prettily, and even atsuch a time, when her body must have been chilled with cold, and her mind somewhatappalled at waking unclad in a churchyard at night, she did not lose her grace. she trembled a little, and clung to me.when i told her to come at once with me home, she rose without a word, with theobedience of a child. as we passed along, the gravel hurt myfeet, and lucy noticed me wince. she stopped and wanted to insist upon mytaking my shoes, but i would not.

however, when we got to the pathway outsidethe churchyard, where there was a puddle of water, remaining from the storm, i daubedmy feet with mud, using each foot in turn on the other, so that as we went home, no one, in case we should meet any one, shouldnotice my bare feet. fortune favoured us, and we got homewithout meeting a soul. once we saw a man, who seemed not quitesober, passing along a street in front of but we hid in a door till he haddisappeared up an opening such as there are here, steep little closes, or 'wynds', asthey call them in scotland. my heart beat so loud all the timesometimes i thought i should faint.

i was filled with anxiety about lucy, notonly for her health, lest she should suffer from the exposure, but for her reputationin case the story should get wind. when we got in, and had washed our feet,and had said a prayer of thankfulness together, i tucked her into bed. before falling asleep she asked, evenimplored, me not to say a word to any one, even her mother, about her sleep-walkingadventure. i hesitated at first, to promise, but onthinking of the state of her mother's health, and how the knowledge of such athing would fret her, and think too, of how such a story might become distorted, nay,

infallibly would, in case it should leakout, i thought it wiser to do so. i hope i did right. i have locked the door, and the key is tiedto my wrist, so perhaps i shall not be again disturbed.lucy is sleeping soundly. the reflex of the dawn is high and far overthe sea... same day, noon.--all goes well.lucy slept till i woke her and seemed not to have even changed her side. the adventure of the night does not seem tohave harmed her, on the contrary, it has benefited her, for she looks better thismorning than she has done for weeks.

i was sorry to notice that my clumsinesswith the safety-pin hurt her. indeed, it might have been serious, for theskin of her throat was pierced. i must have pinched up a piece of looseskin and have transfixed it, for there are two little red points like pin-pricks, andon the band of her nightdress was a drop of blood. when i apologised and was concerned aboutit, she laughed and petted me, and said she did not even feel it.fortunately it cannot leave a scar, as it is so tiny. same day, night.--we passed a happy day.the air was clear, and the sun bright, and

there was a cool breeze. we took our lunch to mulgrave woods, mrs.westenra driving by the road and lucy and i walking by the cliff-path and joining herat the gate. i felt a little sad myself, for i could notbut feel how absolutely happy it would have been had jonathan been with me.but there! i must only be patient. in the evening we strolled in the casinoterrace, and heard some good music by spohr and mackenzie, and went to bed early.lucy seems more restful than she has been for some time, and fell asleep at once.

i shall lock the door and secure the keythe same as before, though i do not expect any trouble tonight. 12 august.--my expectations were wrong, fortwice during the night i was wakened by lucy trying to get out. she seemed, even in her sleep, to be alittle impatient at finding the door shut, and went back to bed under a sort ofprotest. i woke with the dawn, and heard the birdschirping outside of the window. lucy woke, too, and i was glad to see, waseven better than on the previous morning. all her old gaiety of manner seemed to havecome back, and she came and snuggled in

beside me and told me all about arthur.i told her how anxious i was about jonathan, and then she tried to comfort me. well, she succeeded somewhat, for, thoughsympathy can't alter facts, it can make them more bearable.13 august.--another quiet day, and to bed with the key on my wrist as before. again i awoke in the night, and found lucysitting up in bed, still asleep, pointing to the window.i got up quietly, and pulling aside the blind, looked out. it was brilliant moonlight, and the softeffect of the light over the sea and sky,

merged together in one great silentmystery, was beautiful beyond words. between me and the moonlight flitted agreat bat, coming and going in great whirling circles. once or twice it came quite close, but was,i suppose, frightened at seeing me, and flitted away across the harbour towards theabbey. when i came back from the window lucy hadlain down again, and was sleeping peacefully.she did not stir again all night. 14 august.--on the east cliff, reading andwriting all day. lucy seems to have become as much in lovewith the spot as i am, and it is hard to

get her away from it when it is time tocome home for lunch or tea or dinner. this afternoon she made a funny remark. we were coming home for dinner, and hadcome to the top of the steps up from the west pier and stopped to look at the view,as we generally do. the setting sun, low down in the sky, wasjust dropping behind kettleness. the red light was thrown over on the eastcliff and the old abbey, and seemed to bathe everything in a beautiful rosy glow. we were silent for a while, and suddenlylucy murmured as if to herself... "his red eyes again!they are just the same."

it was such an odd expression, comingapropos of nothing, that it quite startled me. i slewed round a little, so as to see lucywell without seeming to stare at her, and saw that she was in a half dreamy state,with an odd look on her face that i could not quite make out, so i said nothing, butfollowed her eyes. she appeared to be looking over at our ownseat, whereon was a dark figure seated alone. i was quite a little startled myself, forit seemed for an instant as if the stranger had great eyes like burning flames, but asecond look dispelled the illusion.

the red sunlight was shining on the windowsof st. mary's church behind our seat, and as the sun dipped there was just sufficientchange in the refraction and reflection to make it appear as if the light moved. i called lucy's attention to the peculiareffect, and she became herself with a start, but she looked sad all the same.it may have been that she was thinking of that terrible night up there. we never refer to it, so i said nothing,and we went home to dinner. lucy had a headache and went early to bed.i saw her asleep, and went out for a little stroll myself.

i walked along the cliffs to the westward,and was full of sweet sadness, for i was thinking of jonathan. when coming home, it was then brightmoonlight, so bright that, though the front of our part of the crescent was in shadow,everything could be well seen, i threw a glance up at our window, and saw lucy'shead leaning out. i opened my handkerchief and waved it.she did not notice or make any movement whatever. just then, the moonlight crept round anangle of the building, and the light fell on the window.

there distinctly was lucy with her headlying up against the side of the window sill and her eyes shut. she was fast asleep, and by her, seated onthe window sill, was something that looked like a good-sized bird. i was afraid she might get a chill, so iran upstairs, but as i came into the room she was moving back to her bed, fastasleep, and breathing heavily. she was holding her hand to her throat, asthough to protect if from the cold. i did not wake her, but tucked her upwarmly. i have taken care that the door is lockedand the window securely fastened.

she looks so sweet as she sleeps, but sheis paler than is her wont, and there is a drawn, haggard look under her eyes which ido not like. i fear she is fretting about something. i wish i could find out what it is.15 august.--rose later than usual. lucy was languid and tired, and slept onafter we had been called. we had a happy surprise at breakfast. arthur's father is better, and wants themarriage to come off soon. lucy is full of quiet joy, and her motheris glad and sorry at once. later on in the day she told me the cause.

she is grieved to lose lucy as her veryown, but she is rejoiced that she is soon to have some one to protect her.poor dear, sweet lady! she confided to me that she has got herdeath warrant. she has not told lucy, and made me promisesecrecy. her doctor told her that within a fewmonths, at most, she must die, for her heart is weakening.at any time, even now, a sudden shock would be almost sure to kill her. ah, we were wise to keep from her theaffair of the dreadful night of lucy's sleep-walking.17 august.--no diary for two whole days.

i have not had the heart to write. some sort of shadowy pall seems to becoming over our happiness. no news from jonathan, and lucy seems to begrowing weaker, whilst her mother's hours are numbering to a close. i do not understand lucy's fading away asshe is doing. she eats well and sleeps well, and enjoysthe fresh air, but all the time the roses in her cheeks are fading, and she getsweaker and more languid day by day. at night i hear her gasping as if for air. i keep the key of our door always fastenedto my wrist at night, but she gets up and

walks about the room, and sits at the openwindow. last night i found her leaning out when iwoke up, and when i tried to wake her i could not.she was in a faint. when i managed to restore her, she was weakas water, and cried silently between long, painful struggles for breath.when i asked her how she came to be at the window she shook her head and turned away. i trust her feeling ill may not be fromthat unlucky prick of the safety-pin. i looked at her throat just now as she layasleep, and the tiny wounds seem not to have healed.

they are still open, and, if anything,larger than before, and the edges of them are faintly white.they are like little white dots with red centres. unless they heal within a day or two, ishall insist on the doctor seeing about them. letter, samuel f. billington & son,solicitors whitby, to messrs. carter, paterson & co., london.17 august "dear sirs,--herewith please receiveinvoice of goods sent by great northern railway.

same are to be delivered at carfax, nearpurfleet, immediately on receipt at goods station king's cross. the house is at present empty, but enclosedplease find keys, all of which are labelled. "you will please deposit the boxes, fiftyin number, which form the consignment, in the partially ruined building forming partof the house and marked 'a' on rough diagrams enclosed. your agent will easily recognize thelocality, as it is the ancient chapel of the mansion.

the goods leave by the train at 9:30tonight, and will be due at king's cross at 4:30 tomorrow afternoon. as our client wishes the delivery made assoon as possible, we shall be obliged by your having teams ready at king's cross atthe time named and forthwith conveying the goods to destination. in order to obviate any delays possiblethrough any routine requirements as to payment in your departments, we enclosecheque herewith for ten pounds, receipt of which please acknowledge. should the charge be less than this amount,you can return balance, if greater, we

shall at once send cheque for difference onhearing from you. you are to leave the keys on coming away inthe main hall of the house, where the proprietor may get them on his entering thehouse by means of his duplicate key. "pray do not take us as exceeding thebounds of business courtesy in pressing you in all ways to use the utmost expedition."we are, dear sirs, faithfully yours, samuel f.billington & son" letter, messrs. carter,paterson & co., london, to messrs. billington & son,whitby.

21 august. "dear sirs,--we beg to acknowledge 10pounds received and to return cheque of 1 pound, 17s, 9d, amount of overplus, asshown in receipted account herewith. goods are delivered in exact accordancewith instructions, and keys left in parcel in main hall, as directed."we are, dear sirs, yours respectfully, pro carter, paterson & co." mina murray's journal.18 august.--i am happy today, and write sitting on the seat in the churchyard.lucy is ever so much better.

last night she slept well all night, anddid not disturb me once. the roses seem coming back already to hercheeks, though she is still sadly pale and wan-looking. if she were in any way anemic i couldunderstand it, but she is not. she is in gay spirits and full of life andcheerfulness. all the morbid reticence seems to havepassed from her, and she has just reminded me, as if i needed any reminding, of thatnight, and that it was here, on this very seat, i found her asleep. as she told me she tapped playfully withthe heel of her boot on the stone slab and

said,"my poor little feet didn't make much noise then! i daresay poor old mr. swales would havetold me that it was because i didn't want to wake up geordie." as she was in such a communicative humour,i asked her if she had dreamed at all that night. before she answered, that sweet, puckeredlook came into her forehead, which arthur, i call him arthur from her habit, says heloves, and indeed, i don't wonder that he does.

then she went on in a half-dreaming kind ofway, as if trying to recall it to herself. "i didn't quite dream, but it all seemed tobe real. i only wanted to be here in this spot. i don't know why, for i was afraid ofsomething, i don't know what. i remember, though i suppose i was asleep,passing through the streets and over the bridge. a fish leaped as i went by, and i leanedover to look at it, and i heard a lot of dogs howling. the whole town seemed as if it must be fullof dogs all howling at once, as i went up

the steps. then i had a vague memory of something longand dark with red eyes, just as we saw in the sunset, and something very sweet andvery bitter all around me at once. and then i seemed sinking into deep greenwater, and there was a singing in my ears, as i have heard there is to drowning men,and then everything seemed passing away from me. my soul seemed to go out from my body andfloat about the air. i seem to remember that once the westlighthouse was right under me, and then there was a sort of agonizing feeling, asif i were in an earthquake, and i came back

and found you shaking my body. i saw you do it before i felt you."then she began to laugh. it seemed a little uncanny to me, and ilistened to her breathlessly. i did not quite like it, and thought itbetter not to keep her mind on the subject, so we drifted on to another subject, andlucy was like her old self again. when we got home the fresh breeze hadbraced her up, and her pale cheeks were really more rosy.her mother rejoiced when she saw her, and we all spent a very happy evening together. 19 august.--joy, joy, joy!although not all joy.

at last, news of jonathan.the dear fellow has been ill, that is why he did not write. i am not afraid to think it or to say it,now that i know. mr. hawkins sent me on the letter, andwrote himself, oh so kindly. i am to leave in the morning and go over tojonathan, and to help to nurse him if necessary, and to bring him home.mr. hawkins says it would not be a bad thing if we were to be married out there. i have cried over the good sister's lettertill i can feel it wet against my bosom, where it lies.it is of jonathan, and must be near my

heart, for he is in my heart. my journey is all mapped out, and myluggage ready. i am only taking one change of dress. lucy will bring my trunk to london and keepit till i send for it, for it may be that...i must write no more. i must keep it to say to jonathan, myhusband. the letter that he has seen and touchedmust comfort me till we meet. letter, sister agatha, hospitalof st. joseph and ste. mary buda-pesth, to misswillhelmina murray

12 august, "dear madam."i write by desire of mr. jonathan harker, who is himself not strong enough to write,though progressing well, thanks to god and st. joseph and ste. mary. he has been under our care for nearly sixweeks, suffering from a violent brain fever. he wishes me to convey his love, and to saythat by this post i write for him to mr. peter hawkins, exeter, to say, with hisdutiful respects, that he is sorry for his delay, and that all of his work iscompleted.

he will require some few weeks' rest in oursanatorium in the hills, but will then return. he wishes me to say that he has notsufficient money with him, and that he would like to pay for his staying here, sothat others who need shall not be wanting for help. "believe me,"yours, with sympathy and all blessings. sister agatha"p.s.--my patient being asleep, i open this to let you know something more. he has told me all about you, and that youare shortly to be his wife.

all blessings to you both! he has had some fearful shock, so says ourdoctor, and in his delirium his ravings have been dreadful, of wolves and poisonand blood, of ghosts and demons, and i fear to say of what. be careful of him always that there may benothing to excite him of this kind for a long time to come.the traces of such an illness as his do not lightly die away. we should have written long ago, but weknew nothing of his friends, and there was nothing on him, nothing that anyone couldunderstand.

he came in the train from klausenburg, andthe guard was told by the station master there that he rushed into the stationshouting for a ticket for home. seeing from his violent demeanour that hewas english, they gave him a ticket for the furthest station on the way thither thatthe train reached. "be assured that he is well cared for. he has won all hearts by his sweetness andgentleness. he is truly getting on well, and i have nodoubt will in a few weeks be all himself. but be careful of him for safety's sake. there are, i pray god and st. joseph andste. mary, many, many, happy years for you

both." dr. seward's diary19 august.--strange and sudden change in renfield last night.about eight o'clock he began to get excited and sniff about as a dog does when setting. the attendant was struck by his manner, andknowing my interest in him, encouraged him to talk. he is usually respectful to the attendantand at times servile, but tonight, the man tells me, he was quite haughty.would not condescend to talk with him at all.

all he would say was, "i don't want to talkto you. you don't count now.the master is at hand." the attendant thinks it is some sudden formof religious mania which has seized him. if so, we must look out for squalls, for astrong man with homicidal and religious mania at once might be dangerous. the combination is a dreadful one.at nine o'clock i visited him myself. his attitude to me was the same as that tothe attendant. in his sublime self-feeling the differencebetween myself and the attendant seemed to him as nothing.it looks like religious mania, and he will

soon think that he himself is god. these infinitesimal distinctions betweenman and man are too paltry for an omnipotent being.how these madmen give themselves away! the real god taketh heed lest a sparrowfall. but the god created from human vanity seesno difference between an eagle and a sparrow. oh, if men only knew!for half an hour or more renfield kept getting excited in greater and greaterdegree. i did not pretend to be watching him, but ikept strict observation all the same.

all at once that shifty look came into hiseyes which we always see when a madman has seized an idea, and with it the shiftymovement of the head and back which asylum attendants come to know so well. he became quite quiet, and went and sat onthe edge of his bed resignedly, and looked into space with lack-luster eyes. i thought i would find out if his apathywere real or only assumed, and tried to lead him to talk of his pets, a theme whichhad never failed to excite his attention. at first he made no reply, but at lengthsaid testily, "bother them all! i don't care a pin about them.""what?"

i said. "you don't mean to tell me you don't careabout spiders?" (spiders at present are his hobby and thenotebook is filling up with columns of small figures.) to this he answered enigmatically, "thebride maidens rejoice the eyes that wait the coming of the bride. but when the bride draweth nigh, then themaidens shine not to the eyes that are filled." he would not explain himself, but remainedobstinately seated on his bed all the time

i remained with him.i am weary tonight and low in spirits. i cannot but think of lucy, and howdifferent things might have been. if i don't sleep at once, chloral, themodern morpheus! i must be careful not to let it grow into ahabit. no, i shall take none tonight!i have thought of lucy, and i shall not dishonour her by mixing the two. if need be, tonight shall be sleepless.later.--glad i made the resolution, gladder that i kept to it. i had lain tossing about, and had heard theclock strike only twice, when the night

watchman came to me, sent up from the ward,to say that renfield had escaped. i threw on my clothes and ran down at once. my patient is too dangerous a person to beroaming about. those ideas of his might work outdangerously with strangers. the attendant was waiting for me. he said he had seen him not ten minutesbefore, seemingly asleep in his bed, when he had looked through the observation trapin the door. his attention was called by the sound ofthe window being wrenched out. he ran back and saw his feet disappearthrough the window, and had at once sent up

for me. he was only in his night gear, and cannotbe far off. the attendant thought it would be moreuseful to watch where he should go than to follow him, as he might lose sight of himwhilst getting out of the building by the door. he is a bulky man, and couldn't get throughthe window. i am thin, so, with his aid, i got out, butfeet foremost, and as we were only a few feet above ground landed unhurt. the attendant told me the patient had goneto the left, and had taken a straight line,

so i ran as quickly as i could. as i got through the belt of trees i saw awhite figure scale the high wall which separates our grounds from those of thedeserted house. i ran back at once, told the watchman toget three or four men immediately and follow me into the grounds of carfax, incase our friend might be dangerous. i got a ladder myself, and crossing thewall, dropped down on the other side. i could see renfield's figure justdisappearing behind the angle of the house, so i ran after him. on the far side of the house i found himpressed close against the old iron-bound

oak door of the chapel. he was talking, apparently to some one, buti was afraid to go near enough to hear what he was saying, lest i might frighten him,and he should run off. chasing an errant swarm of bees is nothingto following a naked lunatic, when the fit of escaping is upon him! after a few minutes, however, i could seethat he did not take note of anything around him, and so ventured to draw nearerto him, the more so as my men had now crossed the wall and were closing him in. i heard him say..."i am here to do your bidding, master.

i am your slave, and you will reward me,for i shall be faithful. i have worshipped you long and afar off. now that you are near, i await yourcommands, and you will not pass me by, will you, dear master, in your distribution ofgood things?" he is a selfish old beggar anyhow. he thinks of the loaves and fishes evenwhen he believes he is in a real presence. his manias make a startling combination.when we closed in on him he fought like a tiger. he is immensely strong, for he was morelike a wild beast than a man.

i never saw a lunatic in such a paroxysm ofrage before, and i hope i shall not again. it is a mercy that we have found out hisstrength and his danger in good time. with strength and determination like his,he might have done wild work before he was caged. he is safe now, at any rate.jack sheppard himself couldn't get free from the strait waistcoat that keeps himrestrained, and he's chained to the wall in the padded room. his cries are at times awful, but thesilences that follow are more deadly still, for he means murder in every turn andmovement.

just now he spoke coherent words for thefirst time. "i shall be patient, master.it is coming, coming, coming!" so i took the hint, and came too. i was too excited to sleep, but this diaryhas quieted me, and i feel i shall get some sleep tonight.

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