and errant hand that set it swaying and clattering in the tray, and said abruptly:-- "And what have you come for, Alistair, eh? what have you come for? To go on with what you've begun? Well, well, lad, I'm ready for you; I'm ready now." His voice was full of timorous irritation, his manner of pitiable distress. "I've thought it out, I've thought it all out," he continued; "and I can combat you, I can combat you, Alistair, wherever you've got your fever-mind from and your fever-tongue." I knew what he meant, and suddenly I knew, too, why I had wanted so eagerly to come to the Manse. My instinct of pity and of sympathy died softly away. My new instinct of cruel rapture in the ruthless exercise of my--shall I call them fever-powers then?--woke, dawned to sunrise. And Doctor Wedderburn and I fell forthwith into an animated theological discussion. He was desperately nervous, desperately ill at ease. His argumentative struggles were those of a drowning man positively convinced--note this,--that he would drown, that no human or divine aid could save him. There was, too, a strong hint of personal anger in his manner, which was strictly undignified. He fought a losing battle with bludgeons, and had an obvious contempt for the bludgeons while in the act of using them in defence or in attack. And at last, with a sort of sharp cry, he threw up his hands, and exclaimed in a voice I hardly knew as his:-- "God forgive you, Alistair, for what you're doing! God forgive you--murderer, murderer!" This dolorous exclamation ran through me like cold water and chilled all the warmth of my intellectual excitement. "Murderer!" I repeated inexpressively. Doctor Wedderburn sat in his chair trembling, and looking upon me with despairing and menacing eyes, the eyes of a man who curses but cannot fight his enemy. "Of a soul, of a soul," he said. "The poisoned dagger?--doubt, the poisoned dagger--you've plunged it into me, boy." Then raising his voice harshly, he exclaimed: "Curse you, curse you!" I was thunderstruck. I declare it here, for it is true. I had defamed--and deliberately--the doctor's dearest idols. I had driven my lance into his convictions. I had blasphemed what he worshipped, and had denied all he affirmed. But that I had made so terrific an impression upon his mind, his soul--this astounded me. Yet what else could his passionate denunciation mean? Had I, a boy, unused to controversy, unskilled in dialectics, overthrown with my hasty words the faith of this strong and fervent man? The thought thrilled one side of my dual nature with triumph, pierced the other with grim horror. My emotions were divided and complex. As I sat silent, my face dogged yet ashamed, the doctor got up from his chair trembling like one with the palsy. "Away from me--away," he cried in a hoarse voice, and pointing at the door. "I'll have no more talk with the Devil, no more--no more!"