A contained fury and disgust possesses him.

He taunts the messenger and the doctor as people would taunt their mortal enemies.

And, indeed, as he knows right well, every one is his enemy now, except his wife.

About her he questions the doctor with something like a last human anxiety; and, in tones of grisly mystery, asks him if he can 'minister to a mind diseased.' When the news of her death is brought him, he is staggered and falls into a seat; but somehow it is not anything we can call grief that he displays.

There had been two of them against God and man; and now, when there is only one, it makes perhaps less difference than he had expected.