the wainscot within. On a nail, near the door, Gwynplaine saw his

esclavine and his cape hung up, as they hang up the clothes of a corpse

in a dead-house. Just then he had neither waistcoat nor coat on.

Behind the van something was laid out on the deck at the foot of the

mast, which was lighted by the lantern. It was a mattress, of which he

could make out one corner. On this mattress some one was probably lying,

for he could see a shadow move.

Some one was speaking. Concealed by the van, Gwynplaine listened. It was

Ursus's voice. That voice, so harsh in its upper, so tender in its

lower, pitch; that voice, which had so often upbraided Gwynplaine, and

which had taught him so well, had lost the life and clearness of its

tone. It was vague and low, and melted into a sigh at the end of every

sentence. It bore but a confused resemblance to his natural and firm

voice of old. It was the voice of one in whom happiness is dead. A voice

may become a ghost.

He seemed to be engaged in monologue rather than in conversation. We are

already aware, however, that soliloquy was a habit with him. It was for

that reason that he passed for a madman.

Gwynplaine held his breath, so as not to lose a word of what Ursus

said, and this was what he heard.

This is a very dangerous kind of craft, because there are no bulwarks

to it. If we were to slip, there is nothing to prevent our going

The Man Who Laughs