murmurings. The thought covered him with confusion, and he did not
for a moment gain sufficient control of his faculties to answer
his interlocutor in a rational manner.

The other, however, relieved his embarrassment by continuing in a
bantering tone: "Why, Ashton, one would suppose by your actions
you were the principal of some terrible tragedy, and that just now
you were suffering from the "pricks of an outraged conscience." I
declare you have mistaken your calling; you would have made your
fortune on the stage. Why, your looks just now would have done for
either Hamlet in the crazy scene, or Macbeth when talking to
Banquo's ghost. But if you are suffering I have something which
will reach the seat of the ailment; as the Scripture puts it, it
is "A balm for all our woes, and a cordial for our fears." Here
it is, Ashton. I have just been up to Charley's to have this dear
little friend of mine replenished. How do you like the looks of
it?" And suiting the action to the word he held up before him a
beautiful little brandy flask. Then detaching the silver cup from
the bottle it partially covered, he filled it full to the brim.
"Here, Ashton, take this potheen," he said, "it will settle your
perturbed spirits, comfort your soul, and drive dull care away."

Ashton's hand shot forward mechanically to take the proffered
glass, and then he drew it hastily back.

"No, Quisling," he said, "I will not touch it. Curse the stuff;
it has wrought enough ruin with mine and me. I was just swearing I
would never drink again, and I was in earnest. I know I must have
appeared to you as some gibbering maniac, but I was fighting my
craven appetite for strong drink. Oh how hard the struggle has