In hoarse mutterings, and fierce imprecations, he gave voice to a passion of grief and anger so furious, that ordinary speech utterly failed it. Frequently he struck the table or the piano frenzied blows with his hand--or he kicked out of his path chairs, stools, or whatever came in his raging way. Even Theodora's embroidery frame was thus treated, and then tenderly lifted and straightened, and put in its place. His restless feet and hands, his distracted walk, his mad motions, his distorted face and inflamed eyes, all indicated a tumult of suffering and despair, rendered all the more terrible by the shrill strain of half-religious oaths, which like flashes of hell-fire made the blackness of darkness in which he suffered all the more lurid and awful. At length his physical nature refused to express any longer his mad sorrow by motion. He fell prone upon the sofa, and clasping his hands over his heart, he sobbed as only strong men in the very exhaustion of all other expression of feeling can sob. By this time it was late, the house was dark and still, and only the miserable man's mother was awake and watching. She felt that there was sorrow in the house, and when midnight came she went softly downstairs and stood at her son's door, listening to the soul in agony, moaning, sobbing, accusing, blaming, entreating, defying. She feared to let him know she was there and she feared to leave him. She was at a loss to account for a passion so amazing and uncontrolled. Stepping softly back to her room she reconsidered herself. In a couple of hours there was the crash of china falling, and her temper got the better of her fear. She went hastily and without attempt at secrecy, to her son's door. "Robert!" she called, but there was no answer. "Robert, Robert Campbell, open this door!" and she shook the handle violently. He rose with an oath, flung the door wide, and stood glaring at her from eyes red and swollen and fierce with anger. "What do you want?" he asked. "Can you not let me alone, even at midnight?" "What is the matter with you? Are you ill?" "No." "Then what for are you sobbing and crying? I'm fairly ashamed for you. Do you know it's two o'clock in the morning?" "I don't care what time it is. Go away." "I will not go. You are demented--or you are wicked beyond believing." "Go away!" "I will not. What, in God's name, is the matter?" "Theodora!" he shrieked, as he flung his arms upward. "O, it is Theodora, is it? I thought so." "She has left me, left me forever! She has gone, and taken my little Davie with her." "Just what I expected." "Just what you drove her to." "Has that black-a-visored dandy staying at the Oliphants' gone with her?" "Damnation, no! Her father and mother went with her." "She says so, no doubt. Do you believe her?" "Yes." "Weel, I'm glad she's off and awa'. We'll hae a bit o' peace now." "My heart is bleeding, bursting; I cannot listen to you."