vant of whom we have spoken,
standing at a little distance from his bed. The moonlight fell in a clear
flood upon this figure: the man was ghastly pale; there was a blotch of
blood on his face; his hands were clasped upon something which they
nearly concealed; and his eyes, fixed on the servant who had just
awakened, shone in the cold light with a wild and lifeless glitter. This
specter drew close to the side of the bed, and stood for a few moments
there with a look of agony and menace, which startled the newly-awakened
man, who rose upright, and said--

"Mr. Merton, Mr. Merton--in God's name, what is the matter?"

Merton recoiled at the sound of his voice; and, as he did so, dropped
something on the floor, which rolled away to a distance; and he stood
gazing silently and horribly upon his interrogator.

"Mr. Merton, I say, what is it?" urged the man. "Are you hurt? Your face
is bloody."

Merton raised his hand to his face mechanically, and Sir Wynston's man
observed that it, too, was covered with blood.

"Why, man," he said, vehemently, and actually freezing with horror, "you
are all bloody; hands and face; all over blood."

"My hand is cut to the bone," said Merton, in a harsh whisper; and
speaking to himself, rather than addressing the servant--"I wish it was
my neck; I wish to God I bled to death."

"You have hurt your hand, Mr. Merton," repeated the man, scarce knowing
what he said.

"Aye," whispered Merton, wildly drawing toward the bedside again; "who
told you I hurt my hand? It is cut to the bone, sure enough."

He stooped for a moment over the bed, and then cowered down toward the
floor to search for what he had dropped.

"Why, Mr. Merton, what brings you here at this hour?" urged the man,
after a pause of a few seconds. "It is drawing toward morning."

"Aye, aye," said Merton, doubtfully, and starting upright again, while
he concealed in his bosom what he had been in search of. "Near morning,
is it? Night and morning, it is all one to me. I believe I am going
mad, by--"

"But what do you want? What did you come here for at this hour?"
persisted the man.

"What! Aye, that is it; why, his boots and spurs, to be sure. I
forgot them. His--his--Sir Wynston's boots and spurs; I forgot to
take them, I say," said Merton, looking toward the dressing room, as
if about to enter it.

"Don't mind them tonight, I say, don't go in there," said the man,
peremptorily, and getting out upon the floor. "I say, M