“We had a most frightful passage, and that was the cause of it. We ran into a storm directly we left Cape Thunderhead; and it followed us all the way across. Bad enough at the outset, it got steadily worse and worse until we reached port. It had only this mitigation—it was behind us, and moved in the same direction with us. Therefore we were delayed but about forty-eight hours. If it had been against us, there's no telling when we should have got ashore; and twenty-four hours more of it Miriam could never have survived.

“For six consecutive days (from the 17th to the 23rd) the hatches were battened down; no passengers were allowed on deck; and not only were the port-holes kept permanently closed, but the inner iron shutters were screwed up, lest the sea should break in and swamp us. The skylights also were, covered. Thus daylight was excluded, as well as fresh air. Then the electric-lighting machine got out of order, and we had to fall back upon candles and petroleum. The atmosphere in the cabins became something unendurable. Much of the time, owing to the violent motion, it was impossible to keep even the candles or the petroleum lamps burning; and we were condemned to total darkness. At last, however, they got the electric machine into running gear again, so that we had light. From second to second, day and night, the sea broke over us with a roar like the discharge of cannon, making every timber of the ship creak and tremble. It was enough to drive one frantic, that everlasting rhythmic thunder.

“And all the while we were tossed up, down, and around, as if that giant vessel were a cockle-shell. Standing erect or walking was not to be thought of. I had to creep from place to place on hands and knees. And then the never-ending motion, and the incessant noise: the howling of the wind, the pounding of the water, the creaking of timbers, the snapping of cordage, the clanking of chains, the crashing of loose things being knocked about, the shouts and tramping of sailors overhead, the groans of sea-sick people, the shrieks of scared women and children, the darkness, the loathsome air—I tell you it was frightful; it was like pandemonium gone mad; the memory of it is like the memory of a nightmare.

“Miriam suffered excruciatingly from seasickness. It was the most heart-rending sight I have ever witnessed, the agony she endured. I had never dreamed that sea-sickness could be so terrible; and the ship's surgeon said he had never seen so severe a case. What made it worse, of course, was the hopelessness of her obtaining any relief until the storm abated, or until we reached shore. There was nothing anyone could do. I just sat there beside her, and held her hand, while she either lay exhausted, or started up and went through the torments of the damned. I can give you no idea of what she suffered. It was hard work to sit still there, and watch her sufferings, and realise that I was utterly powerless to help her in any way. From Monday, the 17th, until last night, when we had been ashore some hours—precisely one week—she did not taste food. Once in a while she would drink a little water, with a drop of brandy in it; but even that distressed her cruelly. On the 20th she was seized with convulsions, awful beyond description. From then on, until we left the ship, she simply alternated between terrible paroxysms and utter prostration. Four days! I thought she was going to die, her convulsions were so violent, the prostration that ensued was so death-like. The ship's surgeon himself admitted that there was great danger—that death might result from exhaustion. For those four days—from the 20th to the 24th—he kept her almost constantly under the influence of opiates. On Saturday she seemed a little better—that is, her convulsions occurred seldomer, and were of shorter duration. When not in convulsions, she would lie in a stupor, as if asleep, only most of the time her eyes were half open, and she would groan. But on Sunday she was worse again; and it was on Sunday night, about ten o'clock, that, after she had lain perfectly quiet for an hour or so, all at once she started up, and asked me whether the electric lights had gone out again. The lights were at that moment burning brightly in our state-room; and I told her so. Then she cried: 'I can't see you. I can't see anything. It is all dark. What has happened? I believe I am blind.'

“Of course, I thought it must be some hallucination caused by her sickness. I could not believe that she had really become blind. But the ship's surgeon came and made an examination, and discovered that it was so. He could attribute it only to a paralysis of the optic nerve, the consequence of shock and exhaustion. What the danger of its being permanent was he could not say.

“Yesterday, thank God, that hellish voyage came to an end. The instant we reached this hotel, I got her into bed and sent off for the best medical men this town holds. They simply corroborated the judgment of the ship's doctor—that she is suffering from shock and exhaustion, and that her blindness is due to a paralysis of the optic nerve. They think it will probably not be permanent. She must keep her bed until she is thoroughly rested, which will take several days. Then we must go to Paris, and put her under the treatment of Dr. Geoffroy Désessaires, who, it seems, is the great French specialist in diseases of the eye.

“She is in bed now, in the next room, sleeping. She sleeps most of the time—or rather, dozes. Her convulsions are over now, I hope for good. But all last night they occurred from time to time—very much less violently, however, than when on ship-board. She has not yet been able to take much nourishment, but as often as she wakes, I give her a little beef-tea.

“That is about all there is to tell down to the present moment. You will understand that I am in no condition of mind to write at greater length than is necessary, having gone without sleep for the greater part of a week, to say nothing of anxiety and distress. When she wakes she talks of you and bids me say how she loves you. And of course you always means yourself and Miss Josephine.

“I pray God that in my next letter I may have more cheering news to write.

“Always yours,