He went uneasily about the room until he had lighted a match, and a candle, with which he went into the next room, still half-looking over his shoulder, as if fearing that something dogged him.
He opened the closet where he kept his wine.

He restlessly filled a large glass and poured it down his throat--not as if he were drinking, but as if he were taking an antidote.

He rubbed his forehead with his hand, and half-smiled a sickly smile.
But still his eyes wandered nervously to the spot in which his uncle had stood; still he seemed to fear that he should see a ghostly figure standing there and pointing at him; should see himself, in some phantom counterpart, sitting in the chair.

His eyes opened as if he were listening intently.

For in the midnight he thought he heard, in that dim light he thought he saw, the Prophet and the King.