Gilbert shared the nurse’s watch till past midnight.  Long before that John Saltram woke from his heavy sleep, and there was more of that incoherent talk so painful to hear—­talk of people that were dead, of scenes that were far away, even of those careless happy wanderings in which those two college friends had been together; and then mere nonsense talk, shreds and patches of random thought, that scorned to be drawn from, some rubbish-chamber, some waste-paper basket of the brain.

It was weary work.  He woke towards eleven, and a little after twelve dropped asleep again; but this time, the effect of the sedative having worn off, the sleep was restless and uneasy.  Then came a brief interval of quiet; and in this Gilbert left him, and flung himself down upon the sofa, to sink into a slumber that was scarcely more peaceful than that of the sick man.

He was thoroughly worn out, however, and slept for some hours, to be awakened suddenly at last by a shrill cry in the next room.  He sprang up from the sofa, and rushed in.  John Saltram was sitting up in bed, propped by the pillows on which his two elbows were planted, looking about him with a fierce haggard face, and calling for “Marian.”  The nurse had fallen asleep in her arm-chair by the fire, and was slumbering placidly.

“Marian,” he cried, “Marian, why have you left me?  God knows I loved you; yes, even when I seemed cold and neglectful.  Everything was against me; but I loved you, my dear, I loved you!  Did I ever say that you came between me and fortune—­was I mean enough, base enough, ever to say that?  It was a lie, my love; you were my fortune.  Were poverty and obscurity hard things to bear for you?  No, my darling, no; I will face them to-morrow, if you will come back to me.  O no, no, she is gone; my life has gone:  I broke her heart with my hard bitter words; I drove my angel away from me.”

He had not spoken so coherently since Gilbert had been with him that day.  Surely this must be an interval of consciousness, or semi-consciousness.  Gilbert went to the bedside, and, seating himself there quietly, looked intently at the altered face, which stared at him without a gleam of recognition.

“Speak to me, John Saltram,” he said.  “You know me, don’t you—­the man who was once your friend, Gilbert Fenton?”

The other burst into a wild bitter laugh.  “Gilbert Fenton—­my friend, the man who trusts me still!  Poor old Gilbert! and I fancied that I loved him, that I would have freely sacrificed my own happiness for his.”

“And yet you betrayed him,” Gilbert said in a low distinct voice.  “But that may be forgiven, if you have been guilty of no deeper wrong than that.  John Saltram, as you have a soul to be saved, what have you done with Marian—­with—­your wife?”

It cost him something, even in that moment of excitement, to pronounce those two words.

“Killed her!” the sick man answered with the same mad laugh.  “She was too good for me, you see; and I grew weary of her calm beauty, and I sickened of her tranquil goodness.  First I sacrificed honour, friendship, everything to win her; and then I got tired of my prize.  It is my nature, I suppose; but I loved her all the time; she had twined herself about my heart somehow.  I knew it when she was lost.”