It is not my business to note down the horrors of this impious frenzy.

It was near five o'clock when he came back to his lodgings; and then, not to rest.

To sit down, to rise again, to walk round the room and round, and stop on a sudden at the window, leaning his elbows on the sash, with hands clenched together, and teeth set; and so those demoniac hours of night and solitude wore slowly away, and the cold gray stole over the east, and Devereux drank a deep draught of his fiery Lethe, and cast himself down on his bed, and fell at once into a deep, exhausted lethargy.
When his servant came to his bed-side at seven o'clock, he was lying motionless, with flushed cheeks, and he could not rouse him.

Perhaps it was well, and saved him from brain-fever or madness.
But after such paroxysms comes often a reaction, a still, stony, awful despondency.

It is only the oscillation between active and passive despair.