He had not broken any rule of importance; he had been on almost friendly terms with Faulkner; he had even ceased to plot the assassination of Plummer.

He was evidently in a low state, and suffering from unusual nervous excitement, thus violently to interrupt the usual tenor of his way; and, as I knew, such a state lends itself readily to the grisly practice of somnambulism.
What was to be done?
Yell?
I couldn't do it for the life of me.

Get up and look for him?
Wild horses could not have dragged a toe of me out of bed.

Stay where I was till the unearthly truant returned?
No, thank you.

At the bare notion my rigid muscles relaxed, my erect hair lay down, and I collapsed, a limp heap, on to the pillow, with every available sheet and blanket drawn over my tightly closed eyes.
And yet, in my unimpassioned moments, I do not think I was a notorious coward.