The news was very unwelcome to Dartmouth.
Weir at least would have been a distraction. Now he must get through a
dismal day, and fight his enemy by himself. To make matters worse, it
was raining, and he could not go out and ride or hunt. He went into
Sir Iltyd's library and talked to him for the rest of the morning. Sir
Iltyd was not exciting, at his best, and to-day he had a bad cold; so
after lunch Dartmouth went up to his tower and resigned himself to his
own company. He sat down before the fire, and taking his head between
his hands allowed the blue devils to triumph. He felt dull as well as
depressed; but for a time he made an attempt to solve the problem of
the phenomenon to which he had been twice subjected. That it was a
phenomenon he did not see any reason to doubt. If he had spent his
life in a vain attempt to write poetry and an unceasing wish for the
necessary inspiration, there would be nothing remarkable in his mind
yielding suddenly to the impetus of accumulated pressure, wrenching
itself free of the will's control, and dashing off on a wild excursion
of its own.
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