There was no answer. He stretched his hand out nervously. There was no one at his side. “It must have been the wind in the trees,” he thought; but there could be no wind in the stagnant dampness of that air. “It was like my own voice,” he thought. Then he remembered how his man in Douglas had told him that he had contracted a habit of talking to himself of late. “It was my own voice,” he thought, and he went on again. “A lie is a bad foundation to build on--that's certain. The thing that should be cannot rest on the thing that is not. It will topple down; it will come to ruin; it will wreck everything. Still----” “It is a lie,” said the voice again. There could be no mistaking it this time. It was a low, deep whisper. It seemed to be spoken in the very cavity of his ear. It was not his own voice, and yet it struck upon his sense with the sound as of his own. It must be his own voice speaking to himself! When this idea took hold of him, he was seized with a deadly shuddering. His heart knocked against his ribs, and an icy coldness came over him. “Only the same tormenting dream,” he thought. “Before it was a vision; now it is a voice. It is generated by solitude and separation. I must resist it I must be strong. It will drive me into an oppression as of madness. Men do not 'see their souls' until they are bordering on madness from religious mania or crime.” “A lie! a lie!” said the voice. “This is madness itself. To paint faces on the darkness, to hear voices in the air, is madness. The madman can do no more.” “A lie!” said the voice again. He cast a look over his shoulder. It was the same as if some one had touched him and spoken. He walked faster. The voice seemed to walk with him. “I will hold myself firm,” he thought; “I will not be afraid. Reason does not fail a man until he allows himself to _believe_ that it is failing. 'I am going mad,' he thinks; and then he shrieks and is mad indeed. I will not depart from my course. If I do so now, I shall be lost. The horror will master me, and I shall be its slave for ever.” He had turned out of Ballure into the Ramsey Road, and he could see the town lights in the distance. But the voice continued to haunt him persistently, besiegingly, despotically. “Great God!” he thought, “what is the imaginary devil to the horror of this presence? Your own eye, your own voice, always with you, always following you! No darkness so dense that it can hide the sight, no noise so loud that it can deaden the sound!” He walked faster. Still the voice seemed to stride by his side, an invisible thing, with deliberate and noiseless step, from which there was no escape. He drew up suddenly and walked slower. His knees were tottering, he was treading as on waves; yet he went on. “I will not yield. I will master myself. I will do what I intended. I am not mad,” he thought. He was at the gate of Elm Cottage by this time, and, with a strong glow of resolution, he walked boldly to the door and knocked. XVIII.