The fitful colour is the fever.

He must win her, for he never yet had failed--he had lost her by his folly! She was his--she was torn from him! She would come at his bidding--she would cower to her tyrants! The thought of her was life and death in his frame, bright heaven and the abyss.

At one beat of the heart she swam to his arms, at another he was straining over darkness.

And whose the fault?
He rose out of his amazement crying it with a roar, and foreignly beholding himself.

He pelted himself with epithets; his worst enemies could not have been handier in using them.