it--too?'

"'See what?' I asked, quickly.

"'That face!' he cried, in accents of horror. 'That face--which is not
mine--and which--I SEE INSTEAD OF MINE--always!'

"I was struck speechless by the words. In a moment this mystery was
explained--but what an explanation! Worse, a hundred times worse, than
anything I had imagined. What! Had this man lost the power of seeing
his own image as it was reflected there before him? and, in its place,
was there the image of another? Had he changed reflexions with some
other man? The frightfulness of the thought struck me speechless for a
time--then I saw how false an impression my silence was conveying.

"'No, no, no!' I cried, as soon as I could speak--'a hundred times, no!
I see you, of course, and only you. It was your face I attempted to
describe, and no other.'

"He seemed not to hear me. 'Why, look there!' he said, in a low,
indistinct voice, pointing to his own image in the glass. 'Whose face do
you see there?'

"'Why yours, of course.' And then, after a moment, I added, 'Whose do
you see?'

"He answered, like one in a trance, '_His_--only his--always his!' He
stood still a moment, and then, with a loud and terrific scream, repeated
those words, 'ALWAYS HIS, ALWAYS HIS,' and fell down in a fit before me.

* * * * *

"I knew what to do now. Here was a thing which, at any rate, I could
understand. I had with me my usual small stock of medicines and surgical
instruments, and I did what was necessary: first to restore my unhappy
patient, and next to procure for him the rest he needed so much. He was
very ill--at death's door for some days--and I could not leave him,
though there was urgent need that I should be back in London. When he
began to mend, I sent over to England for my servant--John Masey--whom I
knew I could trust. Acquainting him with the outlines of the case, I
left him in charge of my patient, with orders that he should be brought
over to this country as soon as he was fit to travel.

"That awful scene was always before me. I saw this devoted man day after
day, with the eyes of my imagination, sometimes destroying in his rage
the harmless looking-glass, which was the immediate cause of his
suffering, sometimes transfixed before the horrid image that turned him
to stone. I recollect coming upon him once when we were stopping at a
roadside inn, and seeing him stand so by broad daylight. His back was
turne