Governor. I thank you, sir.
Has Dimsdell recovered from his trance?
Roger. Not yet. There he lies.
Governor. Wonderful!
Can you account for his condition, Doctor?
Roger. There's no accounting for it, Governor.
This is the second trance I've seen him in;
How many more he's had, God only knows.
Governor. 'Tis most unfortunate that we must lack
His eloquence to-day. The people, who
Always love high-sounding words more than
Wise thoughts, prefer the music of his voice
To good old Wilson's drone. Why isn't he in bed?
Roger. Oh! there are many reasons; 'twould take too long
To tell you now; but at another time
I'll ask your patience for a tale more strange
Than ever made your flesh to creep.
Governor. Is there mystery in the case?
Roger. Mystery! aye, and miracle, too!
You know him, Governor—a man whose nerves
Are gossamers, too fine to sift the music
Of the blasts that blow about our burly world,
And only fit for harps whereon Zephyrus
In Elysium might breathe.—And yet this man—
Oh! you'd not believe it if I told you.
Enter Servant.