An awful pause ensued when Michael Martin ceased to speak.

For some moments Tomlinson sate riveted in speechless terror to his chair—stunned, bewildered, astounded, appalled by all he had just heard.

That dread silence was at length interrupted by the entrance of the surgeon.

"How gets on my patient now?" he said, approaching the couch.

"I fear—I am afraid—that is, I think—his head, wanders," faltered the stock-broker, scarcely knowing what he said.

"We must expect that such will be the case—for some days to come," returned the surgeon, with the coolness of a professional man who saw nothing extraordinary in such results following so strange a resuscitation from a death-like trance.

"You think, then," asked Tomlinson, "that it is possible for this poor old man to rave—about things of—a very extraordinary nature?"

"People, when delirious, burst forth into the most wild and fanciful ravings," answered the surgeon, as he felt Michael's pulse.

"And he might, then, rave of heaven—and hell—and things relating to—"

"He may rave of any nonsense," said the surgeon, abruptly; "but that is no reason why we should allow ourselves to be affected by it—as I see that you are."