The days that followed amply illustrated the truth of this, and many were the hours in which Maud was tempted to despair. Every evil, erring mood that had made up Thurso's record for the last six months was condensed into the few days of that voyage. Sometimes his will would flicker in a little dim flame, so that she knew it was not quite quenched; but the flame was so feeble, and so dense was the blackness that surrounded it. One day he secretly went to the ship's doctor, taking with him the prescription that was so familiar, which he had himself written out and signed with Sir James Sanderson's name, asking him to have it made up. The doctor looked at it. It was all in order. "Certainly, Lord Thurso," he said. "I will have it sent to your cabin. It is rather a strong solution, you know. You must be careful not to exceed the dose." Thurso almost smiled at this. "Oh, I am very careful," he said. "I suffer from terrible neuralgic headaches. Thank you very much." He left the surgery, his heart beating with exhilarated anticipation, when suddenly the doctor, who was looking at the prescription again, gave a little whistle, and then called him. Thurso had hardly left the room, and came back at once. "Lord Thurso," he said, "this is rather odd. Sir James Sanderson is not on board, for I saw him leave the ship at Liverpool. Yet the prescription is written on the ship's paper." Thurso made a furious gesture of impatience. "Oh, for God's sake give it me!" he said. "I shall go mad without it. It was Sir James's prescription. I--I copied it out. I have taken it many times." Then a sudden thought struck him, and he could have screamed at his own stupidity in not having thought of it a second sooner. "I don't know what I am saying," he said. "I didn't copy it out at all. Sir James wrote it for me before he left the ship." The doctor looked at him in silence. It was sufficiently plain to him what the case was. "I am very sorry," he said, "but it is quite impossible for me to give you this. I will with pleasure give you a bromide mixture or phenacetin if your head is bad. Of course, the matter shall go no farther." Thurso merely walked away. There was nothing more to be said. And then suddenly the little flicker of will and of outraged self-respect shot up again, and he saw how mean it all was. He, Thurso, had not only forged this, but his forgery had been detected: that was bitter. He must not do this kind of thing. This powerlessness against his desire was intolerable, degrading; his pride rebelled against the hideous strength of his weakness.