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Rh tore himself from the hands of several keepers, dashing them to the ground; at last, four of them got him down, and, taking him by the hands and feet, put him into the warm water. It seemed to him boiling, and through the frenzied brain flashed a fragmentary, incoherent thought of torture by scalding water and red-hot iron. Choking, and convulsively beating the water with hands and feet (as far as the firm hold of the keepers allowed), he shrieked out in strangled tones an incoherent speech, such as no one could imagine without hearing it. Prayers and curses were jumbled together in it. He shrieked and shouted until he was exhausted; and then, with bitter tears, softly murmured a sentence in no way connected with the former one:—

'Blessed martyr, holy St George. Into thy hands I give my body. But my spirit—no, oh no!'

The keepers still held him, although he had calmed down. The warm bath and an ice-bag placed on his head had produced their effect. But when he was lifted out of the water and seated on a stool to have the blister put on, what remained of his strength and of his frenzied fancies burst out afresh.

'Why? Why?' he cried, 'I have done