Tom went to Campbell that night, and apprised him of the fact. "Those words of yours went through him, sir, like a Minié bullet. I was afraid of what would happen when I heard them." "So was I, the moment after they were spoken. But, sir, I felt a power upon me,--you may think it a fancy,--that there was no resisting." "I dare impute no fancies, when I hear such truth and reason as you spoke upon that stone, sir." "Then you do not blame me?" asked Campbell, with a subdued, almost deprecatory voice, such as Thurnall had never heard in him before. "The man deserved to die, and he died, sir. It is well that there are some means left on earth of punishing offenders whom the law cannot touch." "It is an awful responsibility." "Not more awful than killing a man in battle, which we both have done, sir, and yet have felt no sting of conscience." "An awful responsibility still. Yet what else is life made up of, from morn to night, but of deeds which may earn heaven or hell?... Well, as he did to others, so was it done to him. God forgive him! At least, our cause will be soon tried and judged: there is little fear of my not meeting him again--soon enough." And Campbell, with a sad smile, lay back in his chair and was silent. "My dear sir," said Tom, "allow me to remind you, after this excitement comes a collapse; and that is not to be trifled with just now. Medicine I dare not give you. Food I must." Campbell shook his head. "You must go now, my dear fellow. It is now half-past ten, and I will be at Pennington's at one o'clock, to see how he goes on; so you need not go there. And, meanwhile, I must take a little medicine." "Major, you are not going to doctor yourself?" cried Tom. "There is a certain medicine called prayer, Mr. Thurnall--an old specific for the heart-ache, as you will find one day--which I have been neglecting much of late, and which I must return to in earnest before midnight. Good-bye, God bless and keep you!" And the Major retired to his bed-room, and did not stir off his knees for two full hours. After which he went to Pennington's, and thence somewhere else; and Tom met him at four o'clock that morning musing amid unspeakable horrors, quiet, genial, almost cheerful. "You are a man," said Tom to himself; "and I fancy at times something more than a man; more than me at least." Tom was right in his fear that after excitement would come collapse; but wrong as to the person to whom it would come. When he arrived at the surgery door, Headley stood waiting for him. "Anything fresh? Have you seen the Heales?" "I have been praying with them. Don't be frightened. I am not likely to forget the lesson of this afternoon." "Then go to bed. It is full twelve o'clock." "Not yet, I fear. I want you to see old Willis. All is not right." "Ah! I thought the poor dear old man would kill himself. He has been working too hard, and presuming on his sailor's power of tumbling in and taking a dog's nap whenever he chose."