Poor fellow, he looks very ill to-day. He says that he never slept the whole night, and that the laudanum he took to induce drowsiness only excited and maddened him. I counselled a hot jorum of mulled porter before getting into bed; but he deemed me a monster for the recommendation, and seemed quite disgusted besides. Could n't you send him over a despatch? I think such a document from Stuttgard ought to be an unfailing soporific. CHAPTER VI. QUEER COMPANIONSHIP When Harcourt repaired to Glencore's bedroom, where he still lay, wearied and feverish after a bad night, he was struck by the signs of suffering in the sick man's face. The cheeks were bloodless and fallen iq, the lips pinched, and in the eyes there shone that unnatural brilliancy which results from an over-wrought and over-excited brain. “Sit down here, George,” said he, pointing to a chair beside the bed; “I want to talk to you. I thought every day that I could muster courage for what I wish to say; but somehow, when the time arrived, I felt like a criminal who entreats for a few hours more of life, even though it be a life of misery.” “It strikes me that you were never less equal to the effort than now,” said Harcourt, laying his hand on the other's pulse. “Don't believe my pulse, George,” said Glencore, smiling faintly. “The machine may work badly, but it has wonderful holding out. I 've gone through enough,” added he, gloomily, “to kill most men, and here I am still, breathing and suffering.” “This place doesn't suit you, Glencore. There are not above two days in the month you can venture to take the air.” “And where would you have me go, sir?” he broke in, fiercely. “Would you advise Paris and the Boulevards, or a palace in the Piazza di Spagna at Rome; or perhaps the Chiaja at Naples would be public enough? Is it that I may parade disgrace and infamy through Europe that I should leave this solitude?” “I want to see you in a better climate, Glencore,--in a place where the sun shines occasionally.” “This suits me,” said the other, bluntly; “and here I have the security that none can invade,--none molest me. But it is not of myself I wish to speak,--it is of my boy.” Harcourt made no reply, but sat patiently to listen to what was coming. “It is time to think of him,” added Glencore, slowly. “The other day,--it seems but the other day,--and he was a mere child; a few years more,--to seem when past like a long dreary night,--and he will be a man.” “Very true,” said Harcourt; “and Charley is one of those fellows who only make one plunge from the boy into all the responsibilities of manhood. Throw him into a college at Oxford, or the mess of a regiment to-morrow, and this day week you'll not know him from the rest.” Glencore was silent; if he had heard, he never noticed Harcourt's remark. “Has he ever spoken to you about himself, Harcourt?” asked he, after a pause.