Tossing to and fro upon his hot, uneasy bed; tormented¹ by a fierce thirst which nothing could appease²; unable to find, in any change of posture³, a moment’s peace or ease; and rambling⁴, ever, through deserts of thought where there was no resting-place, no sight or sound suggestive of refreshment⁵ or repose⁶, nothing but a dull eternal weariness, with no change but the restless shiftings of his miserable⁷ body, and the weary wandering of his mind, constant still to one ever-present anxiety — to a sense of something left undone⁸, of some fearful obstacle to be surmounted⁹, of some carking care that would not be driven away, and which haunted the distempered brain, now in this form, now in that, always shadowy and dim, but recognisable for the same phantom¹⁰ in every shape it took: darkening every vision like an evil conscience, and making slumber¹¹ horrible — in these slow tortures of his dread¹² disease, the unfortunate Richard lay wasting and consuming inch by inch, until, at last, when he seemed to fight and struggle to rise up, and to be held down by devils, he sank into a deep sleep, and dreamed no more.

He awoke. With a sensation of most blissful rest, better than sleep itself, he began gradually to remember something of these sufferings, and to think what a long night it had been, and whether he had not been

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