access of faith had again assumed the apoplectic intensity which was

wont to leave him well-nigh stunned. The joints of his fingers used

to crack, and he would repeat without cease these words only: "My

God, my God, my God!" It was the cry of his impotence, the cry of

that sin against which, though his damnation was certain, he felt

powerless to strive. When Nana returned she found him hidden

beneath the bedclothes; he was haggard; he had dug his nails into

his bosom, and his eyes stared upward as though in search of heaven.