“Say, then, my dear sir,” urged he, “say how you would have me serve you—what you would learn of me—what I can do or say to relieve you?” “Listen to me first,” replied Captain Barton, with a subdued air, and an effort to suppress his excitement, “listen to me while I detail the circumstances of the persecution under which my life has become all but intolerable—a persecution which has made me fear _death_ and the world beyond the grave as much as I have grown to hate existence.” Barton then proceeded to relate the circumstances which I have already detailed, and then continued: “This has now become habitual—an accustomed thing. I do not mean the actual seeing him in the flesh—thank God, _that_ at least is not permitted daily. Thank God, from the ineffable horrors of that visitation I have been mercifully allowed intervals of repose, though none of security; but from the consciousness that a malignant spirit is following and watching me wherever I go, I have never, for a single instant, a temporary respite. I am pursued with blasphemies, cries of despair and appalling hatred. I hear those dreadful sounds called after me as I turn the corners of the streets; they come in the night-time, while I sit in my chamber alone; they haunt me everywhere, charging me with hideous crimes, and—great God!—threatening me with coming vengeance and eternal misery. Hush! do you hear _that_?” he cried with a horrible smile of triumph; “there, there, will that convince you?” The clergyman felt a chill of horror steal over him, while, during the wail of a sudden gust of wind, he heard, or fancied he heard, the half articulate sounds of rage and derision mingling in the sough. “Well, what do you think of _that_?” at length Barton cried, drawing a long breath through his teeth. “I heard the wind,” said Doctor ——. “What should I think of it—what is there remarkable about it?” “The prince of the powers of the air,” muttered Barton, with a shudder. “Tut, tut! my dear sir,” said the student, with an effort to reassure himself; for though it was broad daylight, there was nevertheless something disagreeably contagious in the nervous excitement under which his visitor so miserably suffered. “You must not give way to those wild fancies; you must resist these impulses of the imagination.” “Ay, ay; ‘resist the devil and he will flee from thee,’” said Barton, in the same tone; “but _how_ resist him? ay, there it is—there is the rub. What—_what_ am I to do? what _can_ I do?” “My dear sir, this _is_ fancy,” said the man of folios; “you are your own tormentor.” “No, no, sir—fancy has no part in it,” answered Barton, somewhat sternly. “Fancy! was it that made you, as well as me, hear, but this moment, those accents of hell? Fancy, indeed! No, no.”