“‘What do you see?’ he asked next. “‘See?’ I repeated, trying to speak as cheerfully as I could, and describing the reflexion of his own face as nearly as I could. ‘I see a very, very pale face with sunken cheeks—’ “‘What?’ he cried, with an alarm in his voice which I could not understand. “‘With sunken cheeks,’ I went on, ‘and two hollow eyes with large pupils.’ “I saw the reflexion of my friend’s face change, and felt his hand clutch my arm even more tightly than he had done before. I stopped abruptly and looked round at him. He did not turn his head towards me, but, gazing still into the looking-glass, seemed to labour for utterance. “‘What,’ he stammered at last. ‘Do you—see it—too?’ “‘See what?’ I asked, quickly. “‘That face!’ he cried, in accents of horror. ‘That face—which is not mine—and which—I SEE INSTEAD OF MINE—always!’ “I was struck speechless by the words. In a moment this mystery was explained—but what an explanation! Worse, a hundred times worse, than anything I had imagined. What! Had this man lost the power of seeing his own image as it was reflected there before him? and, in its place, was there the image of another? Had he changed reflexions with some other man? The frightfulness of the thought struck me speechless for a time—then I saw how false an impression my silence was conveying. “‘No, no, no!’ I cried, as soon as I could speak—‘a hundred times, no! I see you, of course, and only you. It was your face I attempted to describe, and no other.’ “He seemed not to hear me. ‘Why, look there!’ he said, in a low, indistinct voice, pointing to his own image in the glass. ‘Whose face do you see there?’ “‘Why yours, of course.’ And then, after a moment, I added, ‘Whose do you see?’ “He answered, like one in a trance, ‘_His_—only his—always his!’ He stood still a moment, and then, with a loud and terrific scream, repeated those words, ‘ALWAYS HIS, ALWAYS HIS,’ and fell down in a fit before me. * * * * * “I knew what to do now. Here was a thing which, at any rate, I could understand. I had with me my usual small stock of medicines and surgical instruments, and I did what was necessary: first to restore my unhappy patient, and next to procure for him the rest he needed so much. He was very ill—at death’s door for some days—and I could not leave him, though there was urgent need that I should be back in London. When he began to mend, I sent over to England for my servant—John Masey—whom I knew I could trust. Acquainting him with the outlines of the case, I left him in charge of my patient, with orders that he should be brought over to this country as soon as he was fit to travel.