of the doom which impended over me. And already, indeed, I experienced the curious sensation of the ebbing of volitional power; I thought even that I was losing my interest in life. My sensations were dulled. It began to appear to me unimportant whether I lived or died. Only I knew that in either case I should love Rosa. My love was independent of my will, and therefore the ghost of Clarenceux, do what it might, could not tear it from me. I might die, I might suffer mental tortures inconceivable, but I should continue to love. In this idea lay my only consolation.

I remained motionless in my chair for hours, and then — it was soon after the clocks struck four — I sprang up, and searched among my papers for Alresca’s letter, the seal of which, according to his desire, was still intact. The letter had been