to be irresistible.  His eyes, indeed, were almost transparent with light—­a light so clear, benignant, and strong, that it was impossible to withstand their glance, radiant with benevolence though it was.  The surrender to that glance, however, was a willing and a pleasing one.  The spectator submitted to it as an individual would to the eye of a blessed spirit that was known to communicate nothing but good.  There, then, they sat contemplating one another, each, as it were, in the exercise of some particular power, which, in this case, appeared to depend altogether on the expressions of the eye.  The gaze was long and combative in its character, and constituted a trial of that moral strength which each, in the peculiar constitution of his being, seemed to possess.  After some time, however, Woodward’s glance seemed to lose its concentrative power, and gradually to become vague and blank.  In a little time he felt himself rapidly losing ground, and could hardly avoid thinking that the eyes of his opponent were looking into his very soul:  his eyelids quivered, his eyes assumed a dull and listless appearance, and ultimately closed for some moments—­he was vanquished, and he felt it.

“What is the matter with you?” said his companion at length, “and why did you look at me with such a singular gaze?  I hope you do not feel resentment at what I said.  I hesitated to believe you only because I thought you might be mistaken.”.

“I entertain no resentment against you,” replied Woodward; “but I must confess I feel astonished.  Pray, allow me to ask, sir, are you a medical man?”

“Not at all,” replied the other; “I never received a medical education, and yet I perform a great number of cures.”

“Then, sir,” said Woodward, “I take it, with every respect, that you must be a quack.”

“Did you ever know a quack to work a cure without medicine?” replied the other; “I cure without medicine, and that is more than the quack is able to do with it; I consequently, cannot be a quack.”

“Then, in the devil’s name, what are you?” asked Woodward, who felt that his extraordinary fellow-traveller was amusing himself at his expense.

“I reply to no interrogatory urged upon such authority,” said the stranger; “but let me advise you, young man, not to allow that mysterious and malignant power which you seem to possess to gratify itself by injury to your fellow-creatures.  Let it be the principal purpose of your life to serve them by every means within your reach, otherwise you will neglect to your cost those great duties for which God created you.  Farewell, my friend, and remember my words; for they are uttered in a spirit of kindness and good feeling.”

They had now arrived at cross-roads; the stranger turned to the right, and Woodward proceeded, as directed, toward Rathfillan House, the residence of his father.

The building was a tolerably large and comfortable one, without any pretence to architectural beauty.  It had a plain porch before the hall-door, with a neat lawn, through which wound a pretty drive up to the house.  On each side of the lawn was a semicircle of fine old trees, that gave an ancient appearance to the whole place.