I hastily dressed myself, and went down into the dining-room which opened upon the terrace. The door was already unfastened. My terror had almost entirely passed away, but for quite five minutes I struggled with a curious cowardly feeling, which bade me not interfere with the poor strange boy, but leave him to his ghostly patterings, and merely watch him from the window, to see he took no harm. But better impulses prevailed and, opening the door, I called out: "Eustace! what on earth are you doing? Come in at once." He stopped his antics, and said: "I hate my bedroom. I could not stop in it, it is too small." "Come! come! I'm tired of affectation. You've never complained of it before." "Besides I can't see anything--no flowers, no leaves, no sky: only a stone wall." The outlook of Eustace's room certainly was limited; but, as I told him, he had never complained of it before. "Eustace, you talk like a child. Come in! Prompt obedience, if you please." He did not move. "Very well: I shall carry you in by force." I added, and made a few steps towards him. But I was soon convinced of the futility of pursuing a boy through a tangle of asphalt paths, and went in instead, to call Mr. Sandbach and Leyland to my aid. When I returned with them he was worse than ever. He would not even answer us when we spoke, but began singing and chattering to himself in a most alarming way. "It's a case for the doctor now," said Mr. Sandbach, gravely tapping his forehead. He had stopped his running and was singing, first low, then loud--singing five-finger exercises, scales, hymn tunes, scraps of Wagner--anything that came into his head. His voice--a very untuneful voice--grew stronger and stronger, and he ended with a tremendous shout which boomed like a gun among the mountains, and awoke everyone who was still sleeping in the hotel. My poor wife and the two girls appeared at their respective windows, and the American ladies were heard violently ringing their bell. "Eustace," we all cried, "stop! stop, dear boy, and come into the house." He shook his head, and started off again--talking this time. Never have I listened to such an extraordinary speech. At any other time it would have been ludicrous, for here was a boy, with no sense of beauty and a puerile command of words, attempting to tackle themes which the greatest poets have found almost beyond their power. Eustace Robinson, aged fourteen, was standing in his nightshirt saluting, praising, and blessing, the great forces and manifestations of Nature.