CHAPTER XI.
THE APPEAL TO AUTHORITY "Hic intus homo verus certus optumus recumbo, Publius Octavius Rufus, decuno." Mallard stood reading this inscription, graven on an ancient sarcophagus preserved in the cathedral of Amalfi.

A fool, probably, that excellent Rufus--he said to himself,--but what a happy fool! Unborn as yet, or to him unknown, the faith that would have bidden him write himself a miserable sinner; what he deemed himself in life, what perchance his friends and neighbours deemed him, why not declare it upon the marble when he rested from all his virtues?
"Here lie I, Ross Mallard; who can say no good of myself, yet have as little right to say ill; who had no faith whereby to direct my steps, yet often felt that some such was needful; who spent all my strength on a task which I knew to be vain; who suffered much and joyed rarely; whose happiest day was his last." Somehow like that would it run, if he were to write his own epitaph at present.
The quiet of the dim sanctuary was helpful to such self-communing.

He relished being alone again, and after an hour's brooding had recovered at all events a decent balance of thought, a respite from madness in melancholy.
But he could not employ himself, could not even seek the relief of bodily exertion; his mind grew sluggish, and threw a lassitude upon his limbs.

The greater part of the day he spent in his room at the hotel, merely idle.

This time he had no energy to attack himself with adjurations and sarcasms; body and soul were oppressed with uttermost fatigue, and for a time must lie torpid.