brought him to the town and presented him at the hospital.
He was terrible. Over his grey coat, which he had torn to ribbons during his fit of fury, was fastened the coarse sacking strait-jacket, cut low at the neck with its long-sleeves tied behind, and binding his arms across his chest. His inflamed, widely-distended eyes (he had not slept for ten days) burned with a fixed, fiery glare; the corners of his under lip twitched with a nervous convulsion; the curly, tangled hair had fallen over his forehead like a mane; and he tramped up and down the entry office with quick, heavy steps, curiously examining the old cases full of documents and the leather-covered chairs, and glancing now and then at his escort.
'Take him into the ward to the right.'
'I know, I know. I was here with you last year. We inspected the asylum. I know everything; it will be difficult to deceive me!' said the patient.
He turned towards the door. The hall-porter opened it for him, and, with his quick, heavy, resolute gait, he walked out of the office, holding his frenzied head erect and high, and hurried, almost at a run, down the right-hand corridor into the lunatic ward. The attendants could hardly keep pace with him.
