on shoes.

We could now see the whole length of the gallery. My poor brother sat in
the oriel window of which I have before spoken. He was sitting so as to
face the picture of Adrian Temple, and the great windows of the oriel
flung a strong light on him. At times a cloud hid the moon, and all was
plunged in darkness; but in a moment the cold light fell full on him,
and we could trace every feature as in a picture. He had evidently not
been to bed, for he was fully dressed, exactly as he had left us in the
drawing-room five hours earlier when Constance was weeping over his
thoughtless words. He was playing the violin, playing with a passion and
reckless energy which I had never seen, and hope never to see again.
Perhaps he remembered that this spot was far removed from the rest
of the house, or perhaps he was careless whether any were awake and
listening to him or not; but it seemed to me that he was playing with
a sonorous strength greater than I had thought possible for a single
violin. There came from his instrument such a volume and torrent of
melody as to fill the gallery so full, as it were, of sound that it
throbbed and vibrated again. He kept his eyes fixed on something at the
opposite side of the gallery; we could not indeed see on what, but I
have no doubt at all that it was the portrait of Adrian Temple. His gaze
was eager and expectant, as though he were waiting for something to
occur which did not.

I knew that he had been growing thin of late, but this was the first
time I had realised how sunk were the hollows of his eyes and how
haggard his features had become. It may have been some effect of
moonlight which I do not well understand, but his fine-cut face, once so
handsome, looked on this night worn and thin like that of an old man.
He never for a moment ceased playing. It was always one same dreadful
melody, the _Gagliarda_ of the "Areopagita," and he repeated it time
after time with the perseverance and apparent aimlessness of an
automaton.

He did not see us, and we made no sign, standing afar off in silent
horror at that nocturnal sight. Constance clutched me by the arm: she
was so pale that I perceived it even in the moonlight. "Sophy," she
said, "he is sitting in the same place as on the first night when he
told me how he loved me." I could answer nothing, my voice was frozen
in me. I could only stare at my brother's poor withered face, realising
then for the first time that he must be mad, and