It may have been some effect of moonlight which I do not well understand, but his fine-cut face, once so handsome, looked on this night worn and thin like that of an old man.
He never for a moment ceased playing.

It was always one same dreadful melody, the _Gagliarda_ of the "Areopagita," and he repeated it time after time with the perseverance and apparent aimlessness of an automaton.
He did not see us, and we made no sign, standing afar off in silent horror at that nocturnal sight.

Constance clutched me by the arm: she was so pale that I perceived it even in the moonlight.

"Sophy," she said, "he is sitting in the same place as on the first night when he told me how he loved me." I could answer nothing, my voice was frozen in me.

I could only stare at my brother's poor withered face, realising then for the first time that he must be mad, and that it was the haunting of the _Gagliarda_ that had made him so.
We stood there I believe for half an hour without speech or motion, and all the time that sad figure at the end of the gallery continued its performance.