GEORGE AND LEOPOLD. George went again to Leopold’s room, and sat down by him. The youth lay with his eyes half closed, and a smile--a faint sad one--flickered over his face. He was asleep: from infancy he had slept with his eyes open. “Emmeline!” he murmured, in the tone of one who entreats forgiveness. “Strange infatuation!” said George to himself: “even his dreams are mad! Good God! there can’t be anything in it--can there? I begin to feel as if I were not quite safe myself. Mad-doctors go mad themselves, they say. I wonder what sort of floating sporule carries the infection--reaching the brain by the nose, I fancy. Or perhaps there is latent madness in us all, requiring only the presence of another madness to set it free.” Leopold was awake and looking at him. “Is it a very bad way of dying?” he asked. “What is, old boy!” “Hanging.” “Yes, very bad--choking, you know,” answered George, who wanted to make the worst of it. “I thought the neck was broken and all was over,” returned Leopold, with a slight tremor in his voice. “Yes, that’s how it ought to be; but it fails so often!” “At least there’s no more hanging in public, and that’s a comfort,” said Leopold. “What a queer thing,” said George to himself, “that a man should be ready to hang for an idea! Why should he not do his best to enjoy what is left of the sunlight, seeing, as their own prophet says, the night cometh when no man can work? A few more whiffs of his cigar before it goes out, would hurt no one. It is one thing to hang a murderer, and quite another to hang yourself if you happen to be the man. But he’s stark raving mad, and must be humoured. Dance upon nothing for an idea! Well, it’s not without plenty of parallels in history!--I wonder whether his one idea would give way now, if it were brought to the actual test of hanging! It is a pity it couldn’t be tried, just for experiment’s sake. But a strait-waistcoat would be better.” Leopold’s acquaintance with George had been but small, and of his favourite theories he knew nothing. But he had always known that he was not merely his sister’s cousin, but the trusted friend both of her and of her aunt; and since he had come to know of his frequent visits, he had begun to believe him more to Helen than a friend. Hence the moment he had made up his mind to confess, he was ready to trust George entirely, and although he was disappointed to find him receive his communication in a spirit so different from that of Wingfold and his friend, he felt no motion of distrust on that account, seeing Helen, who had been to him true as steel, took the same view of his resolution. “What would you do yourself then, George, if you had committed a crime like mine?” he asked, after lying silent for a while.