He had just discovered that he was painting the face of the Melancolia on a revolving dome ribbed with millions of lights, and that all his wondrous thoughts stood embodied hundreds of feet below his tiny swinging plank, shouting together in his honour, when something cracked inside his temples like an overstrained bowstring, the glittering dome broke inward, and he was alone in the thick night.
'I'll go to sleep.

The room's very dark.

Let's light a lamp and see how the Melancolia looks.

There ought to have been a moon.' It was then that Torpenhow heard his name called by a voice that he did not know,--in the rattling accents of deadly fear.
'He's looked at the picture,' was his first thought, as he hurried into the bedroom and found Dick sitting up and beating the air with his hands.
'Torp! Torp! where are you?
For pity's sake, come to me!' 'What's the matter ?' Dick clutched at his shoulder.

'Matter! I've been lying here for hours in the dark, and you never heard me.