He leaned his elbows on his knees, and his
chin upon his clenched hand; still he was restless and excited. Once more
he arose, and paced up and down. He consulted his watch again; it was now
but a quarter to one. Sir Wynston's man having received the letters, and his master's
permission to retire to rest, got into his bed, and was soon beginning to
dose. We have already mentioned that his and Sir Wynston's apartments
were separated by a small dressing room, so that any ordinary noise or
conversation could be heard but imperfectly from one to the other. The
servant, however, was startled by a sound of something falling on the
floor of his master's apartment, and broken to pieces by the violence of
the shock. He sate up in his bed, listened, and heard some sentences
spoken vehemently, and gabbled very fast. He thought he distinguished the
words "wretch" and "God"; and there was something so strange in the tone
in which they were spoken, that the man got up and stole noiselessly
through the dressing room, and listened at the door. He heard him, as he thought, walking in his slippers through the room,
and making his customary arrangements previously to getting into bed. He
knew that his master had a habit of speaking when alone, and concluded
that the accidental breakage of some glass or chimney-ornament had
elicited the volley of words he had heard. Well knowing that, except at
the usual hours, or in obedience to Sir Wynston's bell, nothing more
displeased his master than his presuming to enter his sleeping-apartment
while he was there, the servant quietly retreated, and, perfectly
satisfied that all was right, composed himself to slumber, and was soon
beginning to dose again. The adventures of the night, however, were not yet over. Waking, as men
sometimes do, without any ascertainable cause; without a start or an
uneasy sensation; without even a disturbance of the attitude of repose,
he opened his eyes and beheld Merton, the servant of whom we have spoken,
standing at a little distance from his bed. The moonlight fell in a clear
flood upon this figure: the man was ghastly pale; there was a blotch of
blood on his face; his hands were clasped upon something which they
nearly concealed; and his eyes, fixed on the servant who had just
awakened, shone in the cold light with a wild and lifeless glitter. This
specter drew close to the side of the bed, and stood for a few moments
there with a look of agony and menace, which startled the newly-awakened
man, who rose upright, and said--

"Mr. Merton, Mr. Merton--in God's name, what is the matter?" Merton recoiled at the sound of his voice; and, as he did so, dropped
something on the floor, which rolled away to a distance; and he stood
gazing silently and horribly upon his interrogator. "Mr. Merton, I say, what is it?" urged the man. "Are you hurt? Your face
is bloody." Merton raised his hand to his face mechanically, and Sir Wynston's man
observed that it, too, was covered with blood. "Why, man," he said, vehemently, and actually freezing with horror," you
are all bloody; hands and face; all over blood." "My hand is cut to the bone," said Merton, in a harsh whisper; and
speaking to himself, rather than addressing the servant--"I wish it was
my neck; I wish to God I bled to death." "You have hurt your hand, Mr. Merton," repeated the man, scarce knowing
what he said. "Aye," whispered Merton, wildly drawing toward the bedside again; "who
told you I hurt my hand? It is cut to the bone, sure enough." He stooped for a moment over the bed, and then cowered down toward the
floor to search for what he had dropped. "Why, Mr. Merton, what brings you here at this hour?" urged the man,
after a pause of a few seconds. "It is drawing toward morning." "Aye, aye," said Merton, doubtfully, and starting upright again, while
he concealed in his bosom what he had been in search of. "Near morning,
is it? Night and morning, it is all one to me. I believe I am going
mad, by--"

"But what do you want? What did you come here for at this hour?" persisted the man. "What! Aye, that is it; why, his boots and spurs, to be sure. I
forgot them. His--his--Sir Wynston's boots and spurs; I forgot to
take them, I say," said Merton, looking toward the dressing room, as
if about to enter it. "Don't mind them tonight, I say, don't go in there," said the man,
peremptorily, and getting out upon the floor. "I say, Mr. Merton, this is
no hour to be going about searching in the dark for boots and spurs. You'll waken the master. I can't have it, I say; go down, and let it be
for tonight." Thus speaking, in a resolute and somewhat angry under-key, the valet
stood between Merton and the entrance of the dressing-room; and, signing
with his hand toward the other door of the apartment, continued--

"Go down, I say, Mr. Merton, go down; you may as well quietly, for, I
tell you plainly, you shall neither go a step further, nor stay here a
moment longer." The man drew his shoulders up, and made a sort of shivering moan, and
clasping his hands together, shook them, as it seemed, in great agony. He
then turned abruptly, and hurried from the room by the door leading to
the kitchen. "By my faith," said the servant, "I am glad he is gone. The poor chap is
turning crazy, as sure as I am a living man. I'll not have him prowling
about here anymore, however; that I am resolved on." In pursuance of this determination, by no means an imprudent one, as it
seemed, he fastened the door communicating with the lower apartments upon
the inside. He had hardly done this, when he heard a step traversing the
stable-yard, which lay under the window of his apartment. He looked out,
and saw Merton walking hurriedly across, and into a stable at the
farther end. Feeling no very particular curiosity about his movements, the man hurried
back to his bed. Merton's eccentric conduct of late had become so
generally remarked and discussed among the servants, that Sir Wynston's
man was by no means surprised at the oddity of the visit he had just had;
nor, after the first few moments of doubt, before the appearance of blood
had been accounted for, had he entertained any suspicions whatever
connected with the man's unexpected presence in the room. Merton was in
the habit of coming up every night to take down Sir Wynston's boots,
whenever the baronet had ridden in the course of the day; and this
attention had been civilly undertaken as a proof of good-will toward the
valet, whose duty this somewhat soiling and ungentlemanlike process would
otherwise have been. So far, the nature of the visit was explained; and
the remembrance of the friendly feeling and good offices which had been
mutually interchanged, as well as of the inoffensive habits for which
Merton had earned a character for himself, speedily calmed the
uneasiness, for a moment amounting to actual alarm, with which the
servant had regarded his appearance. We must now pass on to the morrow, and ask the reader's attention for a
few moments to a different scene.