staring. At last I knew. This young man was stark mad.
He read my conviction at once. "I think, sir," he went on, changing his tone, "the learned antiquary to whom, as you told me, you were sending your tracing of the plaque, has by this time replied with some information about it."
Relieved at this change of subject, I answered quietly (while considering how best to get him out of the house), "My friend tells me that a similar design is found in Landulph Church, on the tomb of Theodore Paleologus, who died in 1636."
"Precisely; of Theodore Paleologus, descendant of the Constantines."
I began to grasp his insane meaning. "The race, so far as we know, is extinct," said I.
"The race of the Constantines," said he slowly and composedly, "is never extinct; and while it lasts, the soul of Julia Constantine will come to birth again and know the soul of the Jew, until"
I waited.
"Until their love lifts the curse, and the Jew can die."
"This is mere madness," said I, my tongue blurting it out at length.
"I expected you to say no less. Now look you, sir—in a few minutes I leave you, I walk home and spend an hour or two before bedtime in adding figures, balancing accounts; to-morrow I rise and go about my daily business cheerfully, methodically,
