He had seen many drunken men in his time--roysterers and brawlers, most of them--but never one like Poe.

The poet seemed to have lost his identity--nothing of the man of the world was left--in speech, thought, or movement.
When Harry re-entered, his uncle was sitting beside the poet, who had not yet addressed him a word; nor had he again raised his head.

Every now and then the sound of an indrawn breath would escape Poe, as if hot tears were choking him.
St.George waved his hand meaningly.
"Tell Todd I'll ring for him when I want him, Harry," he whispered, "and now do you go to sleep." Then, pointing to the crouching man, "He must stay in my bed here to-night; I won't leave him.

What a pity! O God! what a pity! Poor fellow--how sorry I am for him!" Harry was even more affected.

Terrified and awestruck, he mounted the stairs to his room, locked his chamber door, and threw himself on his bed, his mother's and Kate's pleadings sounding in his ears, his mind filled with the picture of the poet standing erect with closed eyes, the prayer his mother had taught him falling from his lips.