Then came one of those moments of partial unconsciousness in which the sensation of a sound takes shape. It seemed to Philip that the figure of a man had passed him. He remembered it instantly. It was the same that he had seen in the lobby to the Council Chamber, his own figure, but wrapped in a cloak like the one he was then wearing, and with the hood drawn over the head. The body had been half turned aside, the face had been hidden, and the whole form had expressed contempt, repugnance, and loathing. “Not well to-night, your Honour?” said the far-off voice of Jem-y-Lord. He was holding the dazzling lamp up to the Deemster's face. “A little faint--that's all. Go to bed.” Then Philip was alone in his room. “Conscience!” he thought. “Pete may go, but _this_ will be with me to the end. Which, O God?--which?” He poured out half a tumbler from the bottle on the table, and gulped it down at a draught. At the same moment he heard a light foot overhead. It was a woman's foot; it crossed the floor, and then ceased. IX. Next morning the Deemster was still sleeping while the sun was shining into his room. He was awakened by a thunderous clamour, which came as from a nail driven into the back of his head. Opening his eyes, he realised that somebody was knocking at his door, and shouting in a robustious bass-- “Christian, I say! Ever going to get up at all?” It was the Clerk of the Rolls. Under one of his heavy poundings the catch of the door gave way, and he stepped into the room. “Degenerate Manxman!” he roared. “In bed on Tynwald morning. Pooh! this room smells of dead sleep, dead spirits, and dead everything. Let me get at that window--you pitch your clothes all over the floor. Ah! that's fresher! Headache? I should think so. Get up, then, and I'll drive you to St. John's.” “Don't think I'll go to-day, sir,” said Philip in a feeble whimper. “Not go? Holy saints! Judge of his island and not go to Tynwald! What will the Governor say?” “He said last night he would excuse my absence.” “Excuse your fiddlesticks! The air will do you good. I've got the carriage below. Listen! it's striking ten by the church. I'll give you fifteen minutes, and step into your breakfast-room and look over the _Times_.” The Clerk rolled out, and then Philip heard his loud voice through the door in conversation with Jem-y-Lord. “And how's Mrs. Cottier to-day?” “Middling, sir, thank you, sir.'' “You don't let us see too much of her, Jemmy.” “Not been well since coming to Douglas, sir.” Cups and saucers rattled, the newspaper creaked, the Clerk cleared his throat, and there was silence. Philip rose with a heavy heart, still in the torment of his great temptation. He remembered the vision of the night before, and, broad morning as it was, he trembled. In the Isle of Man such visions are understood to foretell death, and the man who sees them is said to “see his soul.” But Philip had no superstitions. He knew what the vision was: he knew what the vision meant.