“No! no!” cried he, “I am not mad, I only have my revenge, but then”—and here his voice sank to a whisper—“_it_ told me to do it.” “Who?” “The vision—the vision that visits this room every night—I but do its bidding,” he replied, shuddering. I then saw that I was dealing with a paranoiac, yet I could not resist the impression that there was a certain reason in his madness. “Have you many of those papers left?” I asked. “They are nearly finished, and when they are done I must die.” “Listen!” he continued, his voice sinking to a whisper. “Every night a ghostly company sits about that table, and what they say I know not; but most awful! a decapitated head stands on its dripping neck on the corner of that mantel up there and presides. It is the head of Lothaire. Its dreadful eyes search my very soul. Its very bidding I feel I must obey. It hurries me on to read! burn! read! burn! and yet I now know very well that every paper I give to the flames in that fireplace is a step toward death. _It_ commands, I obey, and after all it is better so; I am content. “Worse than all,” continued he after a moment’s pause, “that society at Nancy learned in some way that I was right. They searched France for me, and they finally found me here. They have written me time and time again, but I took no notice. Then they put spies upon me—they have even tried to poison me, and failing in that they have tried to steal in upon me. That schoolmaster is one of them. So far they have failed, but they are now waiting for my death, thinking then to gain the precious writings. “_It_ told me that a stranger would come from a far-off land, and that I should give the result of my labor to him. “You are the man,” he exclaimed, “I will trust you! “Listen! while I have read and deciphered and destroyed, I have written. See,” said he, producing a roll of closely written manuscript, “this is a synopsis of it all, it is a history of the life of Maugis, the sorcerer, who was not in league with the devil, as supposed, but acted under the commands of God. “This must never be shown to France,” cried the old man earnestly. “Will you accept the trust and take oath to do my behest regarding it?” “I will, providing I can,” I replied. “Then swear it!” with a sudden force that startled me, thrusting an ancient breviary in my face for me to kiss. “Repeat after me! swear,” he shouted. “+OATH.+ “I, Frederick, Lord Gilhooley, do now swear, on my hope of eternal salvation that I accept the manuscript, notes of Maugis, from Charles Voudran as a solemn trust. I will never show it in France. I will keep its contents from the world until the knowledge of the death of Voudran releases me from this, my oath; that I will then publish it with a dedication as follows: ‘To the fools who compose the Société d’Ethnographie of Nancy!’ So help me, God, and all the saints.”