this motion, extended his hand to him, saying, "Take this, my friend:
you will have no need of violence!" and as he advanced nearer to his
supposed assailant, he beheld, by the pale lamplight, and instantly
recognized, his features.

"Ah!" cried he, in astonishment, but with internal rejoicing, "ah! is
it you who are thus reduced?"

"You say right, Crauford," said Glendower, sullenly, and drawing
himself up to his full height, "it is I: but you are mistaken; I am a
beggar, not a ruffian!"

"Good heavens!" answered Crauford; "how fortunate that we should meet!
Providence watches over us unceasingly! I have long sought you in
vain. But" (and here the wayward malignity, sometimes, though not
always, the characteristic of Crauford's nature, irresistibly broke
out), "but that you, of all men, should suffer so,--you, proud,
susceptible, virtuous beyond human virtue,--you, whose fibres are as
acute as the naked eye,--that you should bear this and wince not!"

"You do my humanity wrong!" said Glendower, with a bitter and almost
ghastly smile; "I do worse than wince!"

"Ay, is it so?" said Crauford; "have you awakened at last? Has your
philosophy taken a more impassioned dye?"

"Mock me not!" cried Glendower; and his eye, usually soft in its deep
thoughtfulness, glared wild and savage upon the hypocrite, who stood
trembling, yet half sneering, at the storm he had raised; "my passions
are even now beyond my mastery; loose them not upon you!"