What was this, that mingled with, that almost lightened his formless horror? It was the old familiar panic that he knew so well; the physical terror that was wont to seize upon him unawares. It did not surprise him that there, on the centre of the crazy bridge, stood, visible to his eye, the "counterfeit presentment" of the terror that he felt within, the ghostly image of his ancestor and of himself. He sank down on his knees, he could not stand, or he must have turned and fled. The form was shadowy, but the awful, hopeless, evil eyes were clear as if they looked close into his own, much clearer, as he knew, than mortal eyes could have been, so far off, in so dim a light. He and his Double looked at each other. Guy was perfectly conscious, wide awake, alive all through. He fell forward on the grass, and hid his face, but the companion Presence was not to be so shut out. "Feeling," as he had said, was worse than seeing. He looked up again. "Will he come here, if I don't go there?" And, suddenly, he knew that _he had a choice_. Through his agony of nerve and bewilderment of brain this conviction shot like an arrow. "I shall fall, or he'll drown me. I can never pass him; but _I can try_." He staggered up on to his feet. His soul was set on edge by the jarring contact of this thing of evil, to draw near, instead of to fly, was more than flesh and blood could bear. He broke into a wild, mad fit of laughter--laughter that echoed, till he did not know which laughed, himself or his Double. They seemed to mock and to defy each other. "Myself or my devil!" shouted the living Guy. "If you kill me, or damn me, you shall not stop me! Here or there--within or without. Come with me if you choose, I'll not be too late!" He staggered forward, his head swam, his eyes grew dizzy, his Double swayed before him, he knew not which was plank and which whirling, rushing water. Then, in the murky, swinging mist, there was a sense of something still and blue, and, for an instant, Florella's face. He sprang at it, and knew no more, till he found himself lying on the stones, half in and half out of the shallow water. The bridge was behind him, and, as he looked fearfully round, the haunting figure still before. Yes, before him on the hillside. It had _come with him_, while the angel face that had saved him was gone. He came to himself, as usual, with the sense of deathlike fainting and sinking, which he knew too well. It was almost dark, he had no idea of the time, or whether he had been moments or hours in crossing the bridge. He had no longer any thoughts, hardly any fears. No words of prayer had come through to him in the awful conflict; but now, as he tried to move and lift himself up, he instinctively murmured, over and over, like a lost child, "Oh God, help me to get up the hill." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ End of Volume One. PART TWO, CHAPTER SEVEN. WAITING FOR GUY.