133 “TRY ME!” He yelled, his voice booming into the cacophony beyond the walls. "Shall I never banish those horrible phantoms from my couch—the father with his bleeding breast and dripping hair!—the mother with her wringing hands and looks of vengeance and reproach!—And must another be added to their number—their son! Horror!—let me be spared this new crime! And yet the gibbet—my name tarnished—my escutcheon blotted by the hangman!—No, I cannot submit to that. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. "But he can't be far off.
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