Mine was out in time to catch him by the wrist.

"Peter Stoupe!" I cried; "are you gone mad ?" 'Twas pitiful to see him then drop on his knees, his face as white as the sheets, and with quaking lips beg for mercy.
"Oh, Humphrey!" he gasped; "forgive--I knew not what I was-- Yes, I was mad--forgive this once--" "Forgive!" said I, "you ask the wrong person.

You are on your knees; ask Him who is above to forgive you! 'Tis Him you have wronged, more than me.

And when you have done, come back to bed, for I am weary." I know not if he prayed, or what he did.

But presently, when he came back to bed, he lay very still and cold, and when we rose in the morning never a word spake either of us of what had passed that night.
But, as I expected, we were none the better friends for all that.