"No, not quite that, though some might think it even worse." She paused, and tried to catch Eugene's pertinaciously averted eye. "Go on, go on. What, in the name of Heaven, is it then? Is he mad?" "It is shocking to see him, Sir," Marryott hastened to rejoin, as if not sorry to have been spared the direct utterance of this communication; "and Mr. Panton has great fears whether his reason is not to an alarming degree affected. He cannot leave him; his violence becomes frightfully increased. Mr. Eugene saw how he was just now. If this continues, some measures must be taken. It is very dangerous to those about him." She paused. "Eh! Eugene, Eugene! This won't do, Eugene! What is to be done?" exclaimed the old man, in sudden panic, as he looked up. "He can't come here--can he? Dangerous! Why, he must not stay here then. I can't keep a madman in the house. Put him on a straight-waistcoat, and take him to the asylum till he is better. I won't have him here, I tell you," cried the tender father. "Hush, Sir, pray!--this is going too far," said Eugene, rising, and looking very grave and shocked. "I hope nothing so very extreme as this will be necessary, though indeed at present my brother is in a very fearful state. Panton has just sent for his assistant, as I should wish to keep the servants out of the way as much as possible; it would be making the dreadful affair too public." "Well, well, what does that matter? It must come out some time or another. Did I not always say he was mad?" and a horrid gleam of something like exultation passed over the old man's countenance; "did he not always from a boy play the madman?" Eugene listened with attentive consideration to his father's words, then looking up, met the significant glance of Marryott fixed upon him. He turned away, and stood thoughtfully gazing into the fire. A pause of some length succeeded. Mr. Trevor had sat for some time musing, or rather calculating also, whilst Marryott stood watching with cold interest and curiosity, the progress of a train of thought, of which her insinuations had kindled the first spark. At length Eugene felt his arm touched. His father had made his way close up to his side. "I say Eugene," and he whispered--but not so low that the third person should not overhear--some words in his ear. His unhappy listener shrank as if the serpent's breath had in reality fanned his cheek. But he only shrank--he did not flee; and those "evil thoughts" from whence stand ready to pour forth like a flood, that fearful category of crime the gospel enumerates--were working within his breast, waiting but that same breath to breathe them forth into life and action. CHAPTER XVIII. A light broke in upon my brain; It ceased, and then it came again; And then by dull degrees came back My senses to their wonted track. BYRON.