His figure and
appearance had always been singular, but now it was more so than ever.
He had been sleeping in his clothes, and he had that peculiar look of
discomfort which always accompanies such rest. His black, elfish,
uncombed locks, had not been cut since he left Durbelliere, and his
beard for many days had not been shorn. He was wretchedly thin and
gaunt; indeed, his hollow, yellow cheeks, and cadaverous jaws, almost
told a tale of utter starvation. Across his face he had an ugly
cicatrice, not the relic of any honourable wound, but given him by the
Chevalier's stick, when he struck him in the parlour at Durbelliere.
Nothing could be more wretched than his appearance; but the most
lamentable thing of all, was the wild wandering of his eyes, which too
plainly told that the mind was not master of itself.
Henri was awe-stricken, and cut to the heart. What was he to say to the
poor wretch, who stood there upon his guard, glaring at him with those
wild eyes from behind his sword! Besides, how was he to defend himself
if he were attacked?
"Adolphe," he said, "why do you raise your sword against your friend?
Don't you see that I have come as your friend: don't you see that I have
no sword?"
The other hesitated for a moment, with the weapon still raised as though
for defence; and then flinging it behind him on the floor, exclaimed:
"There, there--you may kill me, if you will," and having said so, he
threw himself on the bed, and sobbed aloud, and wailed like an infant.
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