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    In the silence I could hear footsteps coming along Berners Street—the tread of one person, but very pronounced and awkward as if he or she were labouring under some burden. The steps then halted, just outside my window. I sat very still, all my faculties in absolute suspense. Then after a minute or so the footsteps resumed upon the cobbles, but with a lighter tread than before. I went over to the window. But I could see no one.
    As I lay in my bed that night, I dreamed that I was being buried, and that my coffin was being slowly lowered into the earth. I seemed to be aware of this without any particular consciousness of dread. But then, as my coffin was settled onto the bed of soil, I became aware that I was not alone. Someone was lying beside me.

ON THE EVENING OF THE NEXT DAY I called upon Bysshe in Poland Street. He was in very good humour, and embraced me as I entered the door. “The first lesson has ended,” he said.
    “Miss Westbrook has gone?”
    “Daniel has just escorted her home. On foot.” He laughed. “She will be the most wonderful scholar, Victor. I spoke to her today about the poetry of Chaucer and the troubadours, and I recited some lines from Guillaume de Lorris.”
    “I thought that you were to teach her Aesop.”
    “I found him too dry. I wish that you had seen her face, Victor, when I read to her from The Romance of the Rose . It was shining. As if her soul were peeping out of her eyes!”
    I suspected then that Bysshe’s interest in Harriet Westbrook was stronger than that of master and pupil. “You read to her from French romance?”
    “Of course. I must begin somewhere. Where else but in a medieval garden? And then we will go on to Spenser. Then Shakespeare. I will shower her with delights!”
    “It must be strange for her to be freed from work.”
    “I believe that it terrifies her and delights her equally. Do you know what she said to me? She said that it was like dying and being reborn. Do you see what a soul she has?”
    “I see that she has impressed you. Where is the play?”
    “Drury Lane. You are not accustomed to our theatres, Victor. Everything begins and ends in Drury Lane. We should go now.”
    The street was filled with carriages, on our arrival, but we made our way without difficulty into the Theatre Royal where we were accosted by comfit-makers, fruit-sellers, and the women of the town. “We are in the pit,” Bysshe said. “A box was not to be had at any price.”
    I had never before visited a London theatre, and I was immediately struck by the disorder of the assembly. We were obliged to stand, close to the small orchestra beneath the stage, and we might as well have been in a fruit market or a horse fair. “Look over there,” Bysshe shouted at me over the general din. “There is Mr. Hunt. Do you see him? With the violet hat? A great man, Victor. A champion of the coming age.” When Leigh Hunt caught sight of Bysshe, he smiled broadly and raised his hat. “Do you know why he is here, Victor? Mr. Hunt is a friend of Cunningham. Our author is a son of liberty. It would not surprise me if there were some demonstrations tonight against the government.”
    Bysshe looked around with satisfaction as the pit filled to its margins, while the seats behind us and the boxes around us were soon fully occupied. I had never before witnessed a London crowd, if I may call it that, and I must say that I was somewhat in fear of it. Despite the laughter, and the general mood of animation, it resembled some restless creature in search of prey. Could many lives make up one life?
    The orchestra struck up an air, a melody no doubt composed for the occasion, and the curtains were drawn apart to reveal a landscape of ice and rock and mountain. “Do you recognise it?” Bysshe whispered to me. “We are in Switzerland.” Then there came upon the stage a hooded figure, accoutred all in black; he walked forward with a quick step like that of some wild creature, so odd and so menacing