Nevertheless, when I retired for the night, it was to find Clarence
asleep indeed, but most uneasily, tossing, moaning, and muttering
broken sentences about 'disgracing his pennant,' 'never bearing to
see mamma's face'--and the like. I thought it a kindness to wake
him, and he started up. 'Ted, is it you? I thought I should never
hear your dear old crutch again! Is it really all right'--then,
sitting up and passing his hand over his face, 'I always mix it up
with the old affair, and think the court-martial is coming again.'
'There's all the difference now.'
'Thank God! yes--He has dragged me through! But it did not seem so
in one's sleep, nor waking neither--though sleep is worst, and
happily there was not much of that! Sit down, Ted; I want to look
at you. I can't believe it is not three weeks since I saw you
last.'
We talked it all out, and I came to some perception of the fearful
ordeal it had been--first, in the decision neither to shut his eyes,
nor to conceal that they were open; and then in the lack of presence
of mind and the sense of confusion that always beset him when
browbeaten and talked down, so that, in the critical contest with
Tooke, he felt as if his feet were slipping from under him, and what
had once been clear to him was becoming dim, so that he had only
been assured that he had held his ground by Tooke's redoubled
persuasions and increased anger.
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