prompt:
Chapter: I awoke in my own bed. If it be that I had not dreamt, the Count must
have carried me here. I tried to satisfy myself on the subject, but
could not arrive at any unquestionable result. To be sure, there were
certain small evidences, such as that my clothes were folded and laid by
in a manner which was not my habit. My watch was still unwound, and I am
rigorously accustomed to wind it the last thing before going to bed, and
many such details. But these things are no proof, for they may have been
evidences that my mind was not as usual, and, from some cause or
another, I had certainly been much upset. I must watch for proof. Of one
thing I am glad: if it was that the Count carried me here and undressed
me, he must have been hurried in his task, for my pockets are intact. I
am sure this diary would have been a mystery to him which he would not
have brooked. He would have taken or destroyed it. As I look round this
room, although it has been to me so full of fear, it is now a sort of
sanctuary, for nothing can be more dreadful than those awful women, who
were--who _are_--waiting to suck my blood.

       *       *       *       *       *

_18 May._--I have been down to look at that room again in daylight, for
I _must_ know the truth. When I got to the doorway at the top of the
stairs I found it closed. It had been so forcibly driven against the
jamb that part of the woodwork was splintered. I could see that the bolt
of the lock had not been shot, but the door is fastened from the inside.
I fear it was no dream, and must act on this surmise.

       *       *       *       *       *

_19 May._--I am surely in the toils. Last night the Count asked me in
the suavest tones to write three letters, one saying that my work here
was nearly done, and that I should start for home within a few days,
another that I was starting on the next morning from the time of the
letter, and the third that I had left the castle and arrived at
Bistritz. I would fain have rebelled, but felt that in the present state
of things it would be madness to quarrel openly with the Count whilst I
am so absolutely in his power; and to refuse would be to excite his
suspicion and to arouse his anger. He knows that I know too much, and
that I must not live, lest I be dangerous to him; my only chance is to
prolong my opportunities. Something may occur which will give me a
chance to escape. I saw in his eyes something of that gathering wrath
which was manifest when he hurled that fair woman from him. He explained
to me that posts were few and uncertain, and that my writing now would
ensure ease of mind to my friends; and he assured me with so much
impressiveness that he would countermand the later letters, which would
be held over at Bistritz until due time in case chance would admit of my
prolonging my stay, that to oppose him would have been to create new
suspicion. I therefore pretended to fall in with his views, and asked
him what dates I should put on the letters. He calculated a minute, and
then said:--

"The first should be June 12, the second June 19, and the third June
29."

I know now the span of my life. God help me!

       *       *       *       *       *

_28 May._--There is a chance of escape, or at any rate of being able to
send word home. A band of Szgany have come to the castle, and are
encamped in the courtyard. These Szgany are gipsies; I have notes of
them in my book. They are peculiar to this part of the world, though
allied to the ordinary gipsies all the world over. There are thousands
of them in Hungary and Transylvania, who are almost outside all law.
They attach themselves as a rule to some great noble or _boyar_, and
call themselves by his name. They are fearless and without religion,
save superstition, and they talk only their own varieties of the Romany
tongue.

I shall write some letters home, and shall try to get them to have them
posted. I have already spoken them through my window to begin
acquaintanceship. They took their hats off and made obeisance and many
signs, which, however, I could not understand any more than I could
their spoken language....

       *       *       *       *       *

I have written the letters. Mina's is in shorthand, and I simply ask Mr.
Hawkins to communicate with her. To her I have explained my situation,
but without the horrors which I may only surmise. It would shock and
frighten her to death were I to expose my heart to her. Should the
letters not carry, then the Count shall not yet know my secret or the
extent of my knowledge....

       *       *       *       *       *

I have given the letters; I threw them through the bars of my window
with a gold piece, and made what signs I could to have them posted. The
man who took them pressed them to his heart and bowed, and then put them
in his cap. I could do no more. I stole back to the study, and began to
read. As the Count did not come in, I have written here....

       *       *       *       *       *

The Count has come. He sat down beside me, and said in his smoothest
voice as he opened two letters:--

"The Szgany has given me these, of which, though I know not whence they
come, I shall, of course, take care. See!"--he must have looked at
it--"one is from you, and to my friend Peter Hawkins; the other"--here
he caught sight of the strange symbols as he opened the envelope, and
the dark look came into his face, and his eyes blazed wickedly--"the
other is a vile thing, an outrage upon friendship and hospitality! It is
not signed. Well! so it cannot matter to us." And he calmly held letter
and envelope in the flame of the lamp till they were consumed. Then he
went on:--

"The letter to Hawkins--that I shall, of course, send on, since it is
yours. Your letters are sacred to me. Your pardon, my friend, that
unknowingly I did break the seal. Will you not cover it again?" He held
out the letter to me, and with a courteous bow handed me a clean
envelope. I could only redirect it and hand it to him in silence. When
he went out of the room I could hear the key turn softly. A minute later
I went over and tried it, and the door was locked.

When, an hour or two after, the Count came quietly into the room, his
coming awakened me, for I had gone to sleep on the sofa. He was very
courteous and very cheery in his manner, and seeing that I had been
sleeping, he said:--

"So, my friend, you are tired? Get to bed. There is the surest rest. I
may not have the pleasure to talk to-night, since there are many labours
to me; but you will sleep, I pray." I passed to my room and went to bed,
and, strange to say, slept without dreaming. Despair has its own calms.

       *       *       *       *       *

_31 May._--This morning when I woke I thought I would provide myself
with some paper and envelopes from my bag and keep them in my pocket, so
that I might write in case I should get an opportunity, but again a
surprise, again a shock!

Every scrap of paper was gone, and with it all my notes, my memoranda,
relating to railways and travel, my letter of credit, in fact all that
might be useful to me were I once outside the castle. I sat and pondered
awhile, and then some thought occurred to me, and I made search of my
portmanteau and in the wardrobe where I had placed my clothes.

The suit in which I had travelled was gone, and also my overcoat and
rug; I could find no trace of them anywhere. This looked like some new
scheme of villainy....

       *       *       *       *       *

_17 June._--This morning, as I was sitting on the edge of my bed
cudgelling my brains, I heard without a cracking of whips and pounding
and scraping of horses' feet up the rocky path beyond the courtyard.
With joy I hurried to the window, and saw drive into the yard two great
leiter-wagons, each drawn by eight sturdy horses, and at the head of
each pair a Slovak, with his wide hat, great nail-studded belt, dirty
sheepskin, and high boots. They had also their long staves in hand. I
ran to the door, intending to descend and try and join them through the
main hall, as I thought that way might be opened for them. Again a
shock: my door was fastened on the outside.

Then I ran to the window and cried to them. They looked up at me
stupidly and pointed, but just then the "hetman" of the Szgany came out,
and seeing them pointing to my window, said something, at which they
laughed. Henceforth no effort of mine, no piteous cry or agonised
entreaty, would make them even look at me. They resolutely turned away.
The leiter-wagons contained great, square boxes, with handles of thick
rope; these were evidently empty by the ease with which the Slovaks
handled them, and by their resonance as they were roughly moved. When
they were all unloaded and packed in a great heap in one corner of the
yard, the Slovaks were given some money by the Szgany, and spitting on
it for luck, lazily went each to his horse's head. Shortly afterwards, I
heard the cracking of their whips die away in the distance.

       *       *       *       *       *

_24 June, before morning._--Last night the Count left me early, and
locked himself into his own room. As soon as I dared I ran up the
winding stair, and looked out of the window, which opened south. I
thought I would watch for the Count, for there is something going on.
The Szgany are quartered somewhere in the castle and are doing work of
some kind. I know it, for now and then I hear a far-away muffled sound
as of mattock and spade, and, whatever it is, it must be the end of some
ruthless villainy.

I had been at the window somewhat less than half an hour, when I saw
something coming out of the Count's window. I drew back and watched
carefully, and saw the whole man emerge. It was a new shock to me to
find that he had on the suit of clothes which I had worn whilst
travelling here, and slung over his shoulder the terrible bag which I
had seen the women take away. There could be no doubt as to his quest,
and in my garb, too! This, then, is his new scheme of evil: that he will
allow others to see me, as they think, so that he may both leave
evidence that I have been seen in the towns or villages posting my own
letters, and that any wickedness which he may do shall by the local
people be attributed to me.

It makes me rage to think that this can go on, and whilst I am shut up
here, a veritable prisoner, but without that protection of the law which
is even a criminal's right and consolation.

I thought I would watch for the Count's return, and for a long time sat
doggedly at the window. Then I began to notice that there were some
quaint little specks floating in the rays of the moonlight. They were
like the tiniest grains of dust, and they whirled round and gathered in
clusters in a nebulous sort of way. I watched them with a sense of
soothing, and a sort of calm stole over me. I leaned back in the
embrasure in a more comfortable position, so that I could enjoy more
fully the aerial gambolling.

Something made me start up, a low, piteous howling of dogs somewhere far
below in the valley, which was hidden from my sight. Louder it seemed to
ring in my ears, and the floating motes of dust to take new shapes to
the sound as they danced in the moonlight. I felt myself struggling to
awake to some call of my instincts; nay, my very soul was struggling,
and my half-remembered sensibilities were striving to answer the call. I
was becoming hypnotised! Quicker and quicker danced the dust; the
moonbeams seemed to quiver as they went by me into the mass of gloom
beyond. More and more they gathered till they seemed to take dim phantom
shapes. And then I started, broad awake and in full possession of my
senses, and ran screaming from the place. The phantom shapes, which were
becoming gradually materialised from the moonbeams, were those of the
three ghostly women to whom I was doomed. I fled, and felt somewhat
safer in my own room, where there was no moonlight and where the lamp
was burning brightly.

When a couple of hours had passed I heard something stirring in the
Count's room, something like a sharp wail quickly suppressed; and then
there was silence, deep, awful silence, which chilled me. With a
beating heart, I tried the door; but I was locked in my prison, and
could do nothing. I sat down and simply cried.

As I sat I heard a sound in the courtyard without--the agonised cry of a
woman. I rushed to the window, and throwing it up, peered out between
the bars. There, indeed, was a woman with dishevelled hair, holding her
hands over her heart as one distressed with running. She was leaning
against a corner of the gateway. When she saw my face at the window she
threw herself forward, and shouted in a voice laden with menace:--

"Monster, give me my child!"

She threw herself on her knees, and raising up her hands, cried the same
words in tones which wrung my heart. Then she tore her hair and beat her
breast, and abandoned herself to all the violences of extravagant
emotion. Finally, she threw herself forward, and, though I could not see
her, I could hear the beating of her naked hands against the door.

Somewhere high overhead, probably on the tower, I heard the voice of the
Count calling in his harsh, metallic whisper. His call seemed to be
answered from far and wide by the howling of wolves. Before many minutes
had passed a pack of them poured, like a pent-up dam when liberated,
through the wide entrance into the courtyard.

There was no cry from the woman, and the howling of the wolves was but
short. Before long they streamed away singly, licking their lips.

I could not pity her, for I knew now what had become of her child, and
she was better dead.

What shall I do? what can I do? How can I escape from this dreadful
thing of night and gloom and fear?

       *       *       *       *       *

_25 June, morning._--No man knows till he has suffered from the night
how sweet and how dear to his heart and eye the morning can be. When the
sun grew so high this morning that it struck the top of the great
gateway opposite my window, the high spot which it touched seemed to me
as if the dove from the ark had lighted there. My fear fell from me as
if it had been a vaporous garment which dissolved in the warmth. I must
take action of some sort whilst the courage of the day is upon me. Last
night one of my post-dated letters went to post, the first of that fatal
series which is to blot out the very traces of my existence from the
earth.

Let me not think of it. Action!

It has always been at night-time that I have been molested or
threatened, or in some way in danger or in fear. I have not yet seen the
Count in the daylight. Can it be that he sleeps when others wake, that
he may be awake whilst they sleep? If I could only get into his room!
But there is no possible way. The door is always locked, no way for me.

Yes, there is a way, if one dares to take it. Where his body has gone
why may not another body go? I have seen him myself crawl from his
window. Why should not I imitate him, and go in by his window? The
chances are desperate, but my need is more desperate still. I shall risk
it. At the worst it can only be death; and a man's death is not a
calf's, and the dreaded Hereafter may still be open to me. God help me
in my task! Good-bye, Mina, if I fail; good-bye, my faithful friend and
second father; good-bye, all, and last of all Mina!

       *       *       *       *       *

_Same day, later._--I have made the effort, and God, helping me, have
come safely back to this room. I must put down every detail in order. I
went whilst my courage was fresh straight to the window on the south
side, and at once got outside on the narrow ledge of stone which runs
around the building on this side. The stones are big and roughly cut,
and the mortar has by process of time been washed away between them. I
took off my boots, and ventured out on the desperate way. I looked down
once, so as to make sure that a sudden glimpse of the awful depth would
not overcome me, but after that kept my eyes away from it. I knew pretty
well the direction and distance of the Count's window, and made for it
as well as I could, having regard to the opportunities available. I did
not feel dizzy--I suppose I was too excited--and the time seemed
ridiculously short till I found myself standing on the window-sill and
trying to raise up the sash. I was filled with agitation, however, when
I bent down and slid feet foremost in through the window. Then I looked
around for the Count, but, with surprise and gladness, made a discovery.
The room was empty! It was barely furnished with odd things, which
seemed to have never been used; the furniture was something the same
style as that in the south rooms, and was covered with dust. I looked
for the key, but it was not in the lock, and I could not find it
anywhere. The only thing I found was a great heap of gold in one
corner--gold of all kinds, Roman, and British, and Austrian, and
Hungarian, and Greek and Turkish money, covered with a film of dust, as
though it had lain long in the ground. None of it that I noticed was
less than three hundred years old. There were also chains and ornaments,
some jewelled, but all of them old and stained.

At one corner of the room was a heavy door. I tried it, for, since I
could not find the key of the room or the key of the outer door, which
was the main object of my search, I must make further examination, or
all my efforts would be in vain. It was open, and led through a stone
passage to a circular stairway, which went steeply down. I descended,
minding carefully where I went, for the stairs were dark, being only lit
by loopholes in the heavy masonry. At the bottom there was a dark,
tunnel-like passage, through which came a deathly, sickly odour, the
odour of old earth newly turned. As I went through the passage the smell
grew closer and heavier. At last I pulled open a heavy door which stood
ajar, and found myself in an old, ruined chapel, which had evidently
been used as a graveyard. The roof was broken, and in two places were
steps leading to vaults, but the ground had recently been dug over, and
the earth placed in great wooden boxes, manifestly those which had been
brought by the Slovaks. There was nobody about, and I made search for
any further outlet, but there was none. Then I went over every inch of
the ground, so as not to lose a chance. I went down even into the
vaults, where the dim light struggled, although to do so was a dread to
my very soul. Into two of these I went, but saw nothing except fragments
of old coffins and piles of dust; in the third, however, I made a
discovery.

There, in one of the great boxes, of which there were fifty in all, on a
pile of newly dug earth, lay the Count! He was either dead or asleep, I
could not say which--for the eyes were open and stony, but without the
glassiness of death--and the cheeks had the warmth of life through all
their pallor; the lips were as red as ever. But there was no sign of
movement, no pulse, no breath, no beating of the heart. I bent over him,
and tried to find any sign of life, but in vain. He could not have lain
there long, for the earthy smell would have passed away in a few hours.
By the side of the box was its cover, pierced with holes here and there.
I thought he might have the keys on him, but when I went to search I saw
the dead eyes, and in them, dead though they were, such a look of hate,
though unconscious of me or my presence, that I fled from the place, and
leaving the Count's room by the window, crawled again up the castle
wall. Regaining my room, I threw myself panting upon the bed and tried
to think....

       *       *       *       *       *

_29 June._--To-day is the date of my last letter, and the Count has
taken steps to prove that it was genuine, for again I saw him leave the
castle by the same window, and in my clothes. As he went down the wall,
lizard fashion, I wished I had a gun or some lethal weapon, that I might
destroy him; but I fear that no weapon wrought alone by man's hand would
have any effect on him. I dared not wait to see him return, for I feared
to see those weird sisters. I came back to the library, and read there
till I fell asleep.

I was awakened by the Count, who looked at me as grimly as a man can
look as he said:--

"To-morrow, my friend, we must part. You return to your beautiful
England, I to some work which may have such an end that we may never
meet. Your letter home has been despatched; to-morrow I shall not be
here, but all shall be ready for your journey. In the morning come the
Szgany, who have some labours of their own here, and also come some
Slovaks. When they have gone, my carriage shall come for you, and shall
bear you to the Borgo Pass to meet the diligence from Bukovina to
Bistritz. But I am in hopes that I shall see more of you at Castle
Dracula." I suspected him, and determined to test his sincerity.
Sincerity! It seems like a profanation of the word to write it in
connection with such a monster, so asked him point-blank:--

"Why may I not go to-night?"

"Because, dear sir, my coachman and horses are away on a mission."

"But I would walk with pleasure. I want to get away at once." He smiled,
such a soft, smooth, diabolical smile that I knew there was some trick
behind his smoothness. He said:--

"And your baggage?"

"I do not care about it. I can send for it some other time."

The Count stood up, and said, with a sweet courtesy which made me rub my
eyes, it seemed so real:--

"You English have a saying which is close to my heart, for its spirit is
that which rules our _boyars_: 'Welcome the coming; speed the parting
guest.' Come with me, my dear young friend. Not an hour shall you wait
in my house against your will, though sad am I at your going, and that
you so suddenly desire it. Come!" With a stately gravity, he, with the
lamp, preceded me down the stairs and along the hall. Suddenly he
stopped.

"Hark!"

Close at hand came the howling of many wolves. It was almost as if the
sound sprang up at the rising of his hand, just as the music of a great
orchestra seems to leap under the baton of the conductor. After a pause
of a moment, he proceeded, in his stately way, to the door, drew back
the ponderous bolts, unhooked the heavy chains, and began to draw it
open.

To my intense astonishment I saw that it was unlocked. Suspiciously, I
looked all round, but could see no key of any kind.

As the door began to open, the howling of the wolves without grew louder
and angrier; their red jaws, with champing teeth, and their blunt-clawed
feet as they leaped, came in through the opening door. I knew then that
to struggle at the moment against the Count was useless. With such
allies as these at his command, I could do nothing. But still the door
continued slowly to open, and only the Count's body stood in the gap.
Suddenly it struck me that this might be the moment and means of my
doom; I was to be given to the wolves, and at my own instigation. There
was a diabolical wickedness in the idea great enough for the Count, and
as a last chance I cried out:--

"Shut the door; I shall wait till morning!" and covered my face with my
hands to hide my tears of bitter disappointment. With one sweep of his
powerful arm, the Count threw the door shut, and the great bolts clanged
and echoed through the hall as they shot back into their places.

In silence we returned to the library, and after a minute or two I went
to my own room. The last I saw of Count Dracula was his kissing his hand
to me; with a red light of triumph in his eyes, and with a smile that
Judas in hell might be proud of.

When I was in my room and about to lie down, I thought I heard a
whispering at my door. I went to it softly and listened. Unless my ears
deceived me, I heard the voice of the Count:--

"Back, back, to your own place! Your time is not yet come. Wait! Have
patience! To-night is mine. To-morrow night is yours!" There was a low,
sweet ripple of laughter, and in a rage I threw open the door, and saw
without the three terrible women licking their lips. As I appeared they
all joined in a horrible laugh, and ran away.

I came back to my room and threw myself on my knees. It is then so near
the end? To-morrow! to-morrow! Lord, help me, and those to whom I am
dear!

       *       *       *       *       *

_30 June, morning._--These may be the last words I ever write in this
diary. I slept till just before the dawn, and when I woke threw myself
on my knees, for I determined that if Death came he should find me
ready.

At last I felt that subtle change in the air, and knew that the morning
had come. Then came the welcome cock-crow, and I felt that I was safe.
With a glad heart, I opened my door and ran down to the hall. I had seen
that the door was unlocked, and now escape was before me. With hands
that trembled with eagerness, I unhooked the chains and drew back the
massive bolts.

But the door would not move. Despair seized me. I pulled, and pulled, at
the door, and shook it till, massive as it was, it rattled in its
casement. I could see the bolt shot. It had been locked after I left the
Count.

Then a wild desire took me to obtain that key at any risk, and I
determined then and there to scale the wall again and gain the Count's
room. He might kill me, but death now seemed the happier choice of
evils. Without a pause I rushed up to the east window, and scrambled
down the wall, as before, into the Count's room. It was empty, but that
was as I expected. I could not see a key anywhere, but the heap of gold
remained. I went through the door in the corner and down the winding
stair and along the dark passage to the old chapel. I knew now well
enough where to find the monster I sought.

The great box was in the same place, close against the wall, but the lid
was laid on it, not fastened down, but with the nails ready in their
places to be hammered home. I knew I must reach the body for the key, so
I raised the lid, and laid it back against the wall; and then I saw
something which filled my very soul with horror. There lay the Count,
but looking as if his youth had been half renewed, for the white hair
and moustache were changed to dark iron-grey; the cheeks were fuller,
and the white skin seemed ruby-red underneath; the mouth was redder than
ever, for on the lips were gouts of fresh blood, which trickled from the
corners of the mouth and ran over the chin and neck. Even the deep,
burning eyes seemed set amongst swollen flesh, for the lids and pouches
underneath were bloated. It seemed as if the whole awful creature were
simply gorged with blood. He lay like a filthy leech, exhausted with his
repletion. I shuddered as I bent over to touch him, and every sense in
me revolted at the contact; but I had to search, or I was lost. The
coming night might see my own body a banquet in a similar way to those
horrid three. I felt all over the body, but no sign could I find of the
key. Then I stopped and looked at the Count. There was a mocking smile
on the bloated face which seemed to drive me mad. This was the being I
was helping to transfer to London, where, perhaps, for centuries to come
he might, amongst its teeming millions, satiate his lust for blood, and
create a new and ever-widening circle of semi-demons to batten on the
helpless. The very thought drove me mad. A terrible desire came upon me
to rid the world of such a monster. There was no lethal weapon at hand,
but I seized a shovel which the workmen had been using to fill the
cases, and lifting it high, struck, with the edge downward, at the
hateful face. But as I did so the head turned, and the eyes fell full
upon me, with all their blaze of basilisk horror. The sight seemed to
paralyse me, and the shovel turned in my hand and glanced from the face,
merely making a deep gash above the forehead. The shovel fell from my
hand across the box, and as I pulled it away the flange of the blade
caught the edge of the lid which fell over again, and hid the horrid
thing from my sight. The last glimpse I had was of the bloated face,
blood-stained and fixed with a grin of malice which would have held its
own in the nethermost hell.

I thought and thought what should be my next move, but my brain seemed
on fire, and I waited with a despairing feeling growing over me. As I
waited I heard in the distance a gipsy song sung by merry voices coming
closer, and through their song the rolling of heavy wheels and the
cracking of whips; the Szgany and the Slovaks of whom the Count had
spoken were coming. With a last look around and at the box which
contained the vile body, I ran from the place and gained the Count's
room, determined to rush out at the moment the door should be opened.
With strained ears, I listened, and heard downstairs the grinding of the
key in the great lock and the falling back of the heavy door. There must
have been some other means of entry, or some one had a key for one of
the locked doors. Then there came the sound of many feet tramping and
dying away in some passage which sent up a clanging echo. I turned to
run down again towards the vault, where I might find the new entrance;
but at the moment there seemed to come a violent puff of wind, and the
door to the winding stair blew to with a shock that set the dust from
the lintels flying. When I ran to push it open, I found that it was
hopelessly fast. I was again a prisoner, and the net of doom was closing
round me more closely.

As I write there is in the passage below a sound of many tramping feet
and the crash of weights being set down heavily, doubtless the boxes,
with their freight of earth. There is a sound of hammering; it is the
box being nailed down. Now I can hear the heavy feet tramping again
along the hall, with many other idle feet coming behind them.

The door is shut, and the chains rattle; there is a grinding of the key
in the lock; I can hear the key withdraw: then another door opens and
shuts; I hear the creaking of lock and bolt.

Hark! in the courtyard and down the rocky way the roll of heavy wheels,
the crack of whips, and the chorus of the Szgany as they pass into the
distance.

I am alone in the castle with those awful women. Faugh! Mina is a woman,
and there is nought in common. They are devils of the Pit!

I shall not remain alone with them; I shall try to scale the castle wall
farther than I have yet attempted. I shall take some of the gold with
me, lest I want it later. I may find a way from this dreadful place.

And then away for home! away to the quickest and nearest train! away
from this cursed spot, from this cursed land, where the devil and his
children still walk with earthly feet!

At least God's mercy is better than that of these monsters, and the
precipice is steep and high. At its foot a man may sleep--as a man.
Good-bye, all! Mina!

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Harker woke up in his own bed and immediately started to write it all down in his journal. The Count has asked Harker to write three letters home--one saying that he's almost done, one saying that he's about to leave, and another saying that he has arrived at Bistritz. Dracula smoothly explains that since the postal service in Transylvania is unreliable, sending these letters ahead will save worry for his friends at home. Dracula adds that the three letters will be sent on June 12, June 19, and June 29. Harker realizes that Dracula must mean to feed him to the vampire ladies on June 29! Harker tries to send some real letters home to Peter Hawkins and to Mina with a group of Szgany, or "gypsies," as he calls them. He sees them from a window, and tosses the letters down, along with a gold piece, and tries to convey to them with sign language that he wants them to mail the letters for him. The letter to Peter Hawkins just tells him to contact Mina. The letter to Mina is written in shorthand, and tells her that he's a prisoner in Castle Dracula, but he leaves out the gory details. Later on, Dracula appears in his room, holding the two letters. He says that the Szgany gave the letters to him and, not knowing what they were, he opened them. He offers to send the letter to Peter Hawkins on, but tears up the one in shorthand because he can't read it--he pretends not to know that it's from Harker. Harker decides to try writing letters again and keep them in his pocket, in case the opportunity of mailing them should present itself. But all his paper and envelopes have gone missing. He looks around and notices his traveling clothes are gone, too. A group of peasants with some wagons show up outside the castle, and Harker tries to flag them down, but they ignore him completely. He watches them unload some big wooden boxes, which appear to be empty, and then drive away again. Harker sees the Count leave the window, dressed in Harker's own traveling clothes! He realizes that the Count must be trying to accumulate witnesses who will think that Harker has left the Castle on time so that no one will miss him. Harker starts to doze off as he waits for the Count to come back, and he notices some specks of dust dancing in the moonlight. The dust specks almost hypnotize him, and he finally forces himself awake--the dust specks had been forming into the shapes of the three vampire ladies, and he shook himself out of his stupor just in time. It's morning, and Harker decides it's time for action. He figures the Count must sleep sometime, and guesses it's during the day. So he decides to creep out of his own window and make his way down to the Count's room. He makes it! But he finds the Count's room empty--all the furniture is dusty and there's a pile of ancient gold coins in a corner. There are some stairs leading down, so Harker goes down, despite the terrible smell coming out of the gloom. It's an ancient chapel, full of old coffins and boxes filled with dirt--the same boxes that he'd seen the peasants unload from their wagon. Harker pokes around a little more, and then finds the Count lying in one of the boxes on a pile of freshly-dug earth. His eyes are open, but are glassy: It's not clear whether he's asleep or dead. Harker runs, climbs back through the window, and manages to climb back up the outside of the castle wall to his own room, where he writes it all down in his journal. It's the day of the last letter Dracula is sending from Harker--so it's the day Harker expects to die. Dracula meets him in the early morning and says that they must say goodbye the next day. Harker asks to leave immediately: Why wait a day? Dracula smiles and tells Harker to go ahead and leave. As Harker opens the front door, wolves start gathering in the courtyard outside the castle. Harker tells Dracula to shut the door and that he'll wait until the next morning to leave. He goes back to his own room alone and writes it all down in his journal. Harker knows he must get the key to the front door at any cost, so he risks climbing into the Count's room again. He finds the Count in the box again, but this time, the Count looks younger: his hair is brown, instead of white, and his cheeks are fuller and have more color. And there's blood on his lips and chin. The idea of helping this monster to immigrate to London, where he could "satiate his lust for blood" for ages to come, drives Harker crazy. He picks up a shovel and swings it down toward Dracula's face, but is only able to make a gash in the forehead. Even though Dracula's unconscious, his head moves slightly to dodge the full brunt of the shovel's blade and then the lid of the coffin swings shut again. Harker climbs back to his own room and from there he hears the boxes and coffins being loaded into wagons in the courtyard at the front of the castle. He realizes that Dracula's own coffin must have been loaded up with the rest--so Harker is alone in the castle with Dracula's brides. He resolves to climb out the castle window and try to find a way down to the ground and make his escape. He writes a farewell note to Mina in his journal, pockets it, and then climbs out.


prompt:
Chapter: "_9 May._

"My dearest Lucy,--

"Forgive my long delay in writing, but I have been simply overwhelmed
with work. The life of an assistant schoolmistress is sometimes trying.
I am longing to be with you, and by the sea, where we can talk together
freely and build our castles in the air. I have been working very hard
lately, because I want to keep up with Jonathan's studies, and I have
been practising shorthand very assiduously. When we are married I shall
be able to be useful to Jonathan, and if I can stenograph well enough I
can take down what he wants to say in this way and write it out for
him on the typewriter, at which also I am practising very hard. He
and I sometimes write letters in shorthand, and he is keeping a
stenographic journal of his travels abroad. When I am with you I
shall keep a diary in the same way. I don't mean one of those
two-pages-to-the-week-with-Sunday-squeezed-in-a-corner diaries, but a
sort of journal which I can write in whenever I feel inclined. I do not
suppose there will be much of interest to other people; but it is not
intended for them. I may show it to Jonathan some day if there is in it
anything worth sharing, but it is really an exercise book. I shall try
to do what I see lady journalists do: interviewing and writing
descriptions and trying to remember conversations. I am told that, with
a little practice, one can remember all that goes on or that one hears
said during a day. However, we shall see. I will tell you of my little
plans when we meet. I have just had a few hurried lines from Jonathan
from Transylvania. He is well, and will be returning in about a week. I
am longing to hear all his news. It must be so nice to see strange
countries. I wonder if we--I mean Jonathan and I--shall ever see them
together. There is the ten o'clock bell ringing. Good-bye.

"Your loving

"MINA.

"Tell me all the news when you write. You have not told me anything for
a long time. I hear rumours, and especially of a tall, handsome,
curly-haired man???"

_Letter, Lucy Westenra to Mina Murray_.

"_17, Chatham Street_,

"_Wednesday_.

"My dearest Mina,--

"I must say you tax me _very_ unfairly with being a bad correspondent. I
wrote to you _twice_ since we parted, and your last letter was only your
_second_. Besides, I have nothing to tell you. There is really nothing
to interest you. Town is very pleasant just now, and we go a good deal
to picture-galleries and for walks and rides in the park. As to the
tall, curly-haired man, I suppose it was the one who was with me at the
last Pop. Some one has evidently been telling tales. That was Mr.
Holmwood. He often comes to see us, and he and mamma get on very well
together; they have so many things to talk about in common. We met some
time ago a man that would just _do for you_, if you were not already
engaged to Jonathan. He is an excellent _parti_, being handsome, well
off, and of good birth. He is a doctor and really clever. Just fancy! He
is only nine-and-twenty, and he has an immense lunatic asylum all under
his own care. Mr. Holmwood introduced him to me, and he called here to
see us, and often comes now. I think he is one of the most resolute men
I ever saw, and yet the most calm. He seems absolutely imperturbable. I
can fancy what a wonderful power he must have over his patients. He has
a curious habit of looking one straight in the face, as if trying to
read one's thoughts. He tries this on very much with me, but I flatter
myself he has got a tough nut to crack. I know that from my glass. Do
you ever try to read your own face? _I do_, and I can tell you it is not
a bad study, and gives you more trouble than you can well fancy if you
have never tried it. He says that I afford him a curious psychological
study, and I humbly think I do. I do not, as you know, take sufficient
interest in dress to be able to describe the new fashions. Dress is a
bore. That is slang again, but never mind; Arthur says that every day.
There, it is all out. Mina, we have told all our secrets to each other
since we were _children_; we have slept together and eaten together, and
laughed and cried together; and now, though I have spoken, I would like
to speak more. Oh, Mina, couldn't you guess? I love him. I am blushing
as I write, for although I _think_ he loves me, he has not told me so in
words. But oh, Mina, I love him; I love him; I love him! There, that
does me good. I wish I were with you, dear, sitting by the fire
undressing, as we used to sit; and I would try to tell you what I feel.
I do not know how I am writing this even to you. I am afraid to stop,
or I should tear up the letter, and I don't want to stop, for I _do_ so
want to tell you all. Let me hear from you _at once_, and tell me all
that you think about it. Mina, I must stop. Good-night. Bless me in your
prayers; and, Mina, pray for my happiness.

"LUCY.

"P.S.--I need not tell you this is a secret. Good-night again.

"L."

_Letter, Lucy Westenra to Mina Murray_.

"_24 May_.

"My dearest Mina,--

"Thanks, and thanks, and thanks again for your sweet letter. It was so
nice to be able to tell you and to have your sympathy.

"My dear, it never rains but it pours. How true the old proverbs are.
Here am I, who shall be twenty in September, and yet I never had a
proposal till to-day, not a real proposal, and to-day I have had three.
Just fancy! THREE proposals in one day! Isn't it awful! I feel sorry,
really and truly sorry, for two of the poor fellows. Oh, Mina, I am so
happy that I don't know what to do with myself. And three proposals!
But, for goodness' sake, don't tell any of the girls, or they would be
getting all sorts of extravagant ideas and imagining themselves injured
and slighted if in their very first day at home they did not get six at
least. Some girls are so vain! You and I, Mina dear, who are engaged and
are going to settle down soon soberly into old married women, can
despise vanity. Well, I must tell you about the three, but you must keep
it a secret, dear, from _every one_, except, of course, Jonathan. You
will tell him, because I would, if I were in your place, certainly tell
Arthur. A woman ought to tell her husband everything--don't you think
so, dear?--and I must be fair. Men like women, certainly their wives, to
be quite as fair as they are; and women, I am afraid, are not always
quite as fair as they should be. Well, my dear, number One came just
before lunch. I told you of him, Dr. John Seward, the lunatic-asylum
man, with the strong jaw and the good forehead. He was very cool
outwardly, but was nervous all the same. He had evidently been schooling
himself as to all sorts of little things, and remembered them; but he
almost managed to sit down on his silk hat, which men don't generally do
when they are cool, and then when he wanted to appear at ease he kept
playing with a lancet in a way that made me nearly scream. He spoke to
me, Mina, very straightforwardly. He told me how dear I was to him,
though he had known me so little, and what his life would be with me to
help and cheer him. He was going to tell me how unhappy he would be if I
did not care for him, but when he saw me cry he said that he was a brute
and would not add to my present trouble. Then he broke off and asked if
I could love him in time; and when I shook my head his hands trembled,
and then with some hesitation he asked me if I cared already for any one
else. He put it very nicely, saying that he did not want to wring my
confidence from me, but only to know, because if a woman's heart was
free a man might have hope. And then, Mina, I felt a sort of duty to
tell him that there was some one. I only told him that much, and then he
stood up, and he looked very strong and very grave as he took both my
hands in his and said he hoped I would be happy, and that if I ever
wanted a friend I must count him one of my best. Oh, Mina dear, I can't
help crying: and you must excuse this letter being all blotted. Being
proposed to is all very nice and all that sort of thing, but it isn't at
all a happy thing when you have to see a poor fellow, whom you know
loves you honestly, going away and looking all broken-hearted, and to
know that, no matter what he may say at the moment, you are passing
quite out of his life. My dear, I must stop here at present, I feel so
miserable, though I am so happy.

"_Evening._

"Arthur has just gone, and I feel in better spirits than when I left
off, so I can go on telling you about the day. Well, my dear, number Two
came after lunch. He is such a nice fellow, an American from Texas, and
he looks so young and so fresh that it seems almost impossible that he
has been to so many places and has had such adventures. I sympathise
with poor Desdemona when she had such a dangerous stream poured in her
ear, even by a black man. I suppose that we women are such cowards that
we think a man will save us from fears, and we marry him. I know now
what I would do if I were a man and wanted to make a girl love me. No, I
don't, for there was Mr. Morris telling us his stories, and Arthur never
told any, and yet---- My dear, I am somewhat previous. Mr. Quincey P.
Morris found me alone. It seems that a man always does find a girl
alone. No, he doesn't, for Arthur tried twice to _make_ a chance, and I
helping him all I could; I am not ashamed to say it now. I must tell you
beforehand that Mr. Morris doesn't always speak slang--that is to say,
he never does so to strangers or before them, for he is really well
educated and has exquisite manners--but he found out that it amused me
to hear him talk American slang, and whenever I was present, and there
was no one to be shocked, he said such funny things. I am afraid, my
dear, he has to invent it all, for it fits exactly into whatever else he
has to say. But this is a way slang has. I do not know myself if I shall
ever speak slang; I do not know if Arthur likes it, as I have never
heard him use any as yet. Well, Mr. Morris sat down beside me and looked
as happy and jolly as he could, but I could see all the same that he was
very nervous. He took my hand in his, and said ever so sweetly:--

"'Miss Lucy, I know I ain't good enough to regulate the fixin's of your
little shoes, but I guess if you wait till you find a man that is you
will go join them seven young women with the lamps when you quit. Won't
you just hitch up alongside of me and let us go down the long road
together, driving in double harness?'

"Well, he did look so good-humoured and so jolly that it didn't seem
half so hard to refuse him as it did poor Dr. Seward; so I said, as
lightly as I could, that I did not know anything of hitching, and that I
wasn't broken to harness at all yet. Then he said that he had spoken in
a light manner, and he hoped that if he had made a mistake in doing so
on so grave, so momentous, an occasion for him, I would forgive him. He
really did look serious when he was saying it, and I couldn't help
feeling a bit serious too--I know, Mina, you will think me a horrid
flirt--though I couldn't help feeling a sort of exultation that he was
number two in one day. And then, my dear, before I could say a word he
began pouring out a perfect torrent of love-making, laying his very
heart and soul at my feet. He looked so earnest over it that I shall
never again think that a man must be playful always, and never earnest,
because he is merry at times. I suppose he saw something in my face
which checked him, for he suddenly stopped, and said with a sort of
manly fervour that I could have loved him for if I had been free:--

"'Lucy, you are an honest-hearted girl, I know. I should not be here
speaking to you as I am now if I did not believe you clean grit, right
through to the very depths of your soul. Tell me, like one good fellow
to another, is there any one else that you care for? And if there is
I'll never trouble you a hair's breadth again, but will be, if you will
let me, a very faithful friend.'

"My dear Mina, why are men so noble when we women are so little worthy
of them? Here was I almost making fun of this great-hearted, true
gentleman. I burst into tears--I am afraid, my dear, you will think
this a very sloppy letter in more ways than one--and I really felt very
badly. Why can't they let a girl marry three men, or as many as want
her, and save all this trouble? But this is heresy, and I must not say
it. I am glad to say that, though I was crying, I was able to look into
Mr. Morris's brave eyes, and I told him out straight:--

"'Yes, there is some one I love, though he has not told me yet that he
even loves me.' I was right to speak to him so frankly, for quite a
light came into his face, and he put out both his hands and took mine--I
think I put them into his--and said in a hearty way:--

"'That's my brave girl. It's better worth being late for a chance of
winning you than being in time for any other girl in the world. Don't
cry, my dear. If it's for me, I'm a hard nut to crack; and I take it
standing up. If that other fellow doesn't know his happiness, well, he'd
better look for it soon, or he'll have to deal with me. Little girl,
your honesty and pluck have made me a friend, and that's rarer than a
lover; it's more unselfish anyhow. My dear, I'm going to have a pretty
lonely walk between this and Kingdom Come. Won't you give me one kiss?
It'll be something to keep off the darkness now and then. You can, you
know, if you like, for that other good fellow--he must be a good fellow,
my dear, and a fine fellow, or you could not love him--hasn't spoken
yet.' That quite won me, Mina, for it _was_ brave and sweet of him, and
noble, too, to a rival--wasn't it?--and he so sad; so I leant over and
kissed him. He stood up with my two hands in his, and as he looked down
into my face--I am afraid I was blushing very much--he said:--

"'Little girl, I hold your hand, and you've kissed me, and if these
things don't make us friends nothing ever will. Thank you for your sweet
honesty to me, and good-bye.' He wrung my hand, and taking up his hat,
went straight out of the room without looking back, without a tear or a
quiver or a pause; and I am crying like a baby. Oh, why must a man like
that be made unhappy when there are lots of girls about who would
worship the very ground he trod on? I know I would if I were free--only
I don't want to be free. My dear, this quite upset me, and I feel I
cannot write of happiness just at once, after telling you of it; and I
don't wish to tell of the number three until it can be all happy.

"Ever your loving

"LUCY.

"P.S.--Oh, about number Three--I needn't tell you of number Three, need
I? Besides, it was all so confused; it seemed only a moment from his
coming into the room till both his arms were round me, and he was
kissing me. I am very, very happy, and I don't know what I have done to
deserve it. I must only try in the future to show that I am not
ungrateful to God for all His goodness to me in sending to me such a
lover, such a husband, and such a friend.

"Good-bye."

_Dr. Seward's Diary._

(Kept in phonograph)

_25 May._--Ebb tide in appetite to-day. Cannot eat, cannot rest, so
diary instead. Since my rebuff of yesterday I have a sort of empty
feeling; nothing in the world seems of sufficient importance to be worth
the doing.... As I knew that the only cure for this sort of thing was
work, I went down amongst the patients. I picked out one who has
afforded me a study of much interest. He is so quaint that I am
determined to understand him as well as I can. To-day I seemed to get
nearer than ever before to the heart of his mystery.

I questioned him more fully than I had ever done, with a view to making
myself master of the facts of his hallucination. In my manner of doing
it there was, I now see, something of cruelty. I seemed to wish to keep
him to the point of his madness--a thing which I avoid with the patients
as I would the mouth of hell.

(_Mem._, under what circumstances would I _not_ avoid the pit of hell?)
_Omnia Romae venalia sunt._ Hell has its price! _verb. sap._ If there be
anything behind this instinct it will be valuable to trace it afterwards
_accurately_, so I had better commence to do so, therefore--

R. M. Renfield, aetat 59.--Sanguine temperament; great physical strength;
morbidly excitable; periods of gloom, ending in some fixed idea which I
cannot make out. I presume that the sanguine temperament itself and the
disturbing influence end in a mentally-accomplished finish; a possibly
dangerous man, probably dangerous if unselfish. In selfish men caution
is as secure an armour for their foes as for themselves. What I think of
on this point is, when self is the fixed point the centripetal force is
balanced with the centrifugal; when duty, a cause, etc., is the fixed
point, the latter force is paramount, and only accident or a series of
accidents can balance it.

_Letter, Quincey P. Morris to Hon. Arthur Holmwood._

"_25 May._

"My dear Art,--

"We've told yarns by the camp-fire in the prairies; and dressed one
another's wounds after trying a landing at the Marquesas; and drunk
healths on the shore of Titicaca. There are more yarns to be told, and
other wounds to be healed, and another health to be drunk. Won't you let
this be at my camp-fire to-morrow night? I have no hesitation in asking
you, as I know a certain lady is engaged to a certain dinner-party, and
that you are free. There will only be one other, our old pal at the
Korea, Jack Seward. He's coming, too, and we both want to mingle our
weeps over the wine-cup, and to drink a health with all our hearts to
the happiest man in all the wide world, who has won the noblest heart
that God has made and the best worth winning. We promise you a hearty
welcome, and a loving greeting, and a health as true as your own right
hand. We shall both swear to leave you at home if you drink too deep to
a certain pair of eyes. Come!

"Yours, as ever and always,

"QUINCEY P. MORRIS."

_Telegram from Arthur Holmwood to Quincey P. Morris._

"_26 May._

"Count me in every time. I bear messages which will make both your ears
tingle.

"ART."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: This chapter opens with a letter from Mina Murray to Lucy Westenra, dated May 9. Just as a reminder--May 9 puts us back in time a bit. May 9 is the day after Jonathan Harker cut himself while shaving and discovered that Dracula doesn't reflect in mirrors. Mina writes to Lucy apologizing for not having written sooner, but says it's hard to find the time with her job as an assistant schoolteacher. She says they'll be together soon by the sea for vacation. Mina tells Lucy that she's been practicing writing in shorthand and at typing on a typewriter so that she'll be able to help Jonathan in his work after they're married. She's keeping a journal in shorthand every day to practice. She tells Lucy that she's gotten a short letter from Jonathan saying that he'll be returning in about a week. She asks Lucy to write her back with news--especially about a certain good-looking someone. Lucy writes back promptly, describing all her social engagements and parties. Apparently Lucy is of a higher social class than Mina: Mina has to work for a living, while Lucy gets to be a social butterfly. Lucy says that the good-looking person Mina asked about must be Mr. Arthur Holmwood, who is an upper-class, rich, good-looking guy. She says they've also been introduced to a friend of Holmwood's named Dr. John Seward, who is also good-looking. Dr. Seward visits them a lot now, Lucy says. Lucy confides to Mina that she's in love with Arthur Holmwood and says that she can't wait for Mina to join her on vacation at the seaside so that they can gossip and chat in person. Lucy writes to Mina again--this time it's dated May 24. For reference, that's a few days before Harker tried to send letters to Mina and Peter Hawkins in secret with the Szgany. Lucy tells Mina that even though she's almost twenty and has never been proposed to previously, she's actually had three proposals of marriage in one day! She accepted one of them, but had to refuse the first two. The first was Dr. John Seward . He proposed and was refused-- he was disappointed, but took it pretty calmly and promised to be her friend for life if ever she needed anything. The second was an American from Texas, Quincey P. Morris. Quincey Morris is also a friend of Dr. Seward and Arthur Holmwood. He asked her to marry him, and she refused as she did with Jack Seward. She admitted to him that she loves someone else, and Quincey Morris promised to be her friend for life. Lucy is so emotional as she writes about it to Mina that she can't bring herself to describe the third proposal--Arthur Holmwood's--in any detail. Suffice to say that she's engaged to Arthur and is happy about it. The chapter switches to Dr. Seward's diary, which, we're told, was kept in a "phonograph," or an early recording device--very high-tech when the novel was written . May 25 : Seward says that he tried to distract himself from disappointment by working hard. He runs a mental hospital , so he goes down to check on his patients. One of them, R.M. Renfield, is particularly interesting--and potentially dangerous. The chapter switches to a letter from Quincey Morris to Arthur Holmwood, dated May 25 Morris reminds Arthur of all the good old times they've had together on hunting trips in America, and invites him out for a drink with Jack Seward. It'll be like old times, and he and Jack can congratulate Arthur on his engagement to Lucy. Even though he and Jack Seward are both disappointed, they're generous enough to be happy for Arthur. The chapter closes with a telegram from Arthur Holmwood to Quincey Morris, dated May 26, accepting the invitation. Historical context note: Telegrams were messages sent by Morse code before long-distance phone service was invented or widely available . Telegrams were much faster than handwritten letters, but writers were more limited as to length, since they paid by the word.


prompt:
Chapter: _24 July. Whitby._--Lucy met me at the station, looking sweeter and
lovelier than ever, and we drove up to the house at the Crescent in
which they have rooms. This is a lovely place. The little river, the
Esk, runs through a deep valley, which broadens out as it comes near the
harbour. A great viaduct runs across, with high piers, through which the
view seems somehow further away than it really is. The valley is
beautifully green, and it is so steep that when you are on the high land
on either side you look right across it, unless you are near enough to
see down. The houses of the old town--the side away from us--are all
red-roofed, and seem piled up one over the other anyhow, like the
pictures we see of Nuremberg. Right over the town is the ruin of Whitby
Abbey, which was sacked by the Danes, and which is the scene of part of
"Marmion," where the girl was built up in the wall. It is a most noble
ruin, of immense size, and full of beautiful and romantic bits; there is
a legend that a white lady is seen in one of the windows. Between it and
the town there is another church, the parish one, round which is a big
graveyard, all full of tombstones. This is to my mind the nicest spot in
Whitby, for it lies right over the town, and has a full view of the
harbour and all up the bay to where the headland called Kettleness
stretches out into the sea. It descends so steeply over the harbour that
part of the bank has fallen away, and some of the graves have been
destroyed. In one place part of the stonework of the graves stretches
out over the sandy pathway far below. There are walks, with seats beside
them, through the churchyard; and people go and sit there all day long
looking at the beautiful view and enjoying the breeze. I shall come and
sit here very often myself and work. Indeed, I am writing now, with my
book on my knee, and listening to the talk of three old men who are
sitting beside me. They seem to do nothing all day but sit up here and
talk.

The harbour lies below me, with, on the far side, one long granite wall
stretching out into the sea, with a curve outwards at the end of it, in
the middle of which is a lighthouse. A heavy sea-wall runs along outside
of it. On the near side, the sea-wall makes an elbow crooked inversely,
and its end too has a lighthouse. Between the two piers there is a
narrow opening into the harbour, which then suddenly widens.

It is nice at high water; but when the tide is out it shoals away to
nothing, and there is merely the stream of the Esk, running between
banks of sand, with rocks here and there. Outside the harbour on this
side there rises for about half a mile a great reef, the sharp edge of
which runs straight out from behind the south lighthouse. At the end of
it is a buoy with a bell, which swings in bad weather, and sends in a
mournful sound on the wind. They have a legend here that when a ship is
lost bells are heard out at sea. I must ask the old man about this; he
is coming this way....

He is a funny old man. He must be awfully old, for his face is all
gnarled and twisted like the bark of a tree. He tells me that he is
nearly a hundred, and that he was a sailor in the Greenland fishing
fleet when Waterloo was fought. He is, I am afraid, a very sceptical
person, for when I asked him about the bells at sea and the White Lady
at the abbey he said very brusquely:--

"I wouldn't fash masel' about them, miss. Them things be all wore out.
Mind, I don't say that they never was, but I do say that they wasn't in
my time. They be all very well for comers and trippers, an' the like,
but not for a nice young lady like you. Them feet-folks from York and
Leeds that be always eatin' cured herrin's an' drinkin' tea an' lookin'
out to buy cheap jet would creed aught. I wonder masel' who'd be
bothered tellin' lies to them--even the newspapers, which is full of
fool-talk." I thought he would be a good person to learn interesting
things from, so I asked him if he would mind telling me something about
the whale-fishing in the old days. He was just settling himself to begin
when the clock struck six, whereupon he laboured to get up, and said:--

"I must gang ageeanwards home now, miss. My grand-daughter doesn't like
to be kept waitin' when the tea is ready, for it takes me time to
crammle aboon the grees, for there be a many of 'em; an', miss, I lack
belly-timber sairly by the clock."

He hobbled away, and I could see him hurrying, as well as he could, down
the steps. The steps are a great feature on the place. They lead from
the town up to the church, there are hundreds of them--I do not know how
many--and they wind up in a delicate curve; the slope is so gentle that
a horse could easily walk up and down them. I think they must originally
have had something to do with the abbey. I shall go home too. Lucy went
out visiting with her mother, and as they were only duty calls, I did
not go. They will be home by this.

       *       *       *       *       *

_1 August._--I came up here an hour ago with Lucy, and we had a most
interesting talk with my old friend and the two others who always come
and join him. He is evidently the Sir Oracle of them, and I should think
must have been in his time a most dictatorial person. He will not admit
anything, and downfaces everybody. If he can't out-argue them he bullies
them, and then takes their silence for agreement with his views. Lucy
was looking sweetly pretty in her white lawn frock; she has got a
beautiful colour since she has been here. I noticed that the old men did
not lose any time in coming up and sitting near her when we sat down.
She is so sweet with old people; I think they all fell in love with her
on the spot. Even my old man succumbed and did not contradict her, but
gave me double share instead. I got him on the subject of the legends,
and he went off at once into a sort of sermon. I must try to remember it
and put it down:--

"It be all fool-talk, lock, stock, and barrel; that's what it be, an'
nowt else. These bans an' wafts an' boh-ghosts an' barguests an' bogles
an' all anent them is only fit to set bairns an' dizzy women
a-belderin'. They be nowt but air-blebs. They, an' all grims an' signs
an' warnin's, be all invented by parsons an' illsome beuk-bodies an'
railway touters to skeer an' scunner hafflin's, an' to get folks to do
somethin' that they don't other incline to. It makes me ireful to think
o' them. Why, it's them that, not content with printin' lies on paper
an' preachin' them out of pulpits, does want to be cuttin' them on the
tombstones. Look here all around you in what airt ye will; all them
steans, holdin' up their heads as well as they can out of their pride,
is acant--simply tumblin' down with the weight o' the lies wrote on
them, 'Here lies the body' or 'Sacred to the memory' wrote on all of
them, an' yet in nigh half of them there bean't no bodies at all; an'
the memories of them bean't cared a pinch of snuff about, much less
sacred. Lies all of them, nothin' but lies of one kind or another! My
gog, but it'll be a quare scowderment at the Day of Judgment when they
come tumblin' up in their death-sarks, all jouped together an' tryin' to
drag their tombsteans with them to prove how good they was; some of them
trimmlin' and ditherin', with their hands that dozzened an' slippy from
lyin' in the sea that they can't even keep their grup o' them."

I could see from the old fellow's self-satisfied air and the way in
which he looked round for the approval of his cronies that he was
"showing off," so I put in a word to keep him going:--

"Oh, Mr. Swales, you can't be serious. Surely these tombstones are not
all wrong?"

"Yabblins! There may be a poorish few not wrong, savin' where they make
out the people too good; for there be folk that do think a balm-bowl be
like the sea, if only it be their own. The whole thing be only lies. Now
look you here; you come here a stranger, an' you see this kirk-garth." I
nodded, for I thought it better to assent, though I did not quite
understand his dialect. I knew it had something to do with the church.
He went on: "And you consate that all these steans be aboon folk that be
happed here, snod an' snog?" I assented again. "Then that be just where
the lie comes in. Why, there be scores of these lay-beds that be toom as
old Dun's 'bacca-box on Friday night." He nudged one of his companions,
and they all laughed. "And my gog! how could they be otherwise? Look at
that one, the aftest abaft the bier-bank: read it!" I went over and
read:--

"Edward Spencelagh, master mariner, murdered by pirates off the coast of
Andres, April, 1854, aet. 30." When I came back Mr. Swales went on:--

"Who brought him home, I wonder, to hap him here? Murdered off the coast
of Andres! an' you consated his body lay under! Why, I could name ye a
dozen whose bones lie in the Greenland seas above"--he pointed
northwards--"or where the currents may have drifted them. There be the
steans around ye. Ye can, with your young eyes, read the small-print of
the lies from here. This Braithwaite Lowrey--I knew his father, lost in
the _Lively_ off Greenland in '20; or Andrew Woodhouse, drowned in the
same seas in 1777; or John Paxton, drowned off Cape Farewell a year
later; or old John Rawlings, whose grandfather sailed with me, drowned
in the Gulf of Finland in '50. Do ye think that all these men will have
to make a rush to Whitby when the trumpet sounds? I have me antherums
aboot it! I tell ye that when they got here they'd be jommlin' an'
jostlin' one another that way that it 'ud be like a fight up on the ice
in the old days, when we'd be at one another from daylight to dark, an'
tryin' to tie up our cuts by the light of the aurora borealis." This was
evidently local pleasantry, for the old man cackled over it, and his
cronies joined in with gusto.

"But," I said, "surely you are not quite correct, for you start on the
assumption that all the poor people, or their spirits, will have to
take their tombstones with them on the Day of Judgment. Do you think
that will be really necessary?"

"Well, what else be they tombstones for? Answer me that, miss!"

"To please their relatives, I suppose."

"To please their relatives, you suppose!" This he said with intense
scorn. "How will it pleasure their relatives to know that lies is wrote
over them, and that everybody in the place knows that they be lies?" He
pointed to a stone at our feet which had been laid down as a slab, on
which the seat was rested, close to the edge of the cliff. "Read the
lies on that thruff-stean," he said. The letters were upside down to me
from where I sat, but Lucy was more opposite to them, so she leant over
and read:--

"Sacred to the memory of George Canon, who died, in the hope of a
glorious resurrection, on July, 29, 1873, falling from the rocks at
Kettleness. This tomb was erected by his sorrowing mother to her dearly
beloved son. 'He was the only son of his mother, and she was a widow.'
Really, Mr. Swales, I don't see anything very funny in that!" She spoke
her comment very gravely and somewhat severely.

"Ye don't see aught funny! Ha! ha! But that's because ye don't gawm the
sorrowin' mother was a hell-cat that hated him because he was
acrewk'd--a regular lamiter he was--an' he hated her so that he
committed suicide in order that she mightn't get an insurance she put on
his life. He blew nigh the top of his head off with an old musket that
they had for scarin' the crows with. 'Twarn't for crows then, for it
brought the clegs and the dowps to him. That's the way he fell off the
rocks. And, as to hopes of a glorious resurrection, I've often heard him
say masel' that he hoped he'd go to hell, for his mother was so pious
that she'd be sure to go to heaven, an' he didn't want to addle where
she was. Now isn't that stean at any rate"--he hammered it with his
stick as he spoke--"a pack of lies? and won't it make Gabriel keckle
when Geordie comes pantin' up the grees with the tombstean balanced on
his hump, and asks it to be took as evidence!"

I did not know what to say, but Lucy turned the conversation as she
said, rising up:--

"Oh, why did you tell us of this? It is my favourite seat, and I cannot
leave it; and now I find I must go on sitting over the grave of a
suicide."

"That won't harm ye, my pretty; an' it may make poor Geordie gladsome to
have so trim a lass sittin' on his lap. That won't hurt ye. Why, I've
sat here off an' on for nigh twenty years past, an' it hasn't done me
no harm. Don't ye fash about them as lies under ye, or that doesn' lie
there either! It'll be time for ye to be getting scart when ye see the
tombsteans all run away with, and the place as bare as a stubble-field.
There's the clock, an' I must gang. My service to ye, ladies!" And off
he hobbled.

Lucy and I sat awhile, and it was all so beautiful before us that we
took hands as we sat; and she told me all over again about Arthur and
their coming marriage. That made me just a little heart-sick, for I
haven't heard from Jonathan for a whole month.

       *       *       *       *       *

_The same day._ I came up here alone, for I am very sad. There was no
letter for me. I hope there cannot be anything the matter with Jonathan.
The clock has just struck nine. I see the lights scattered all over the
town, sometimes in rows where the streets are, and sometimes singly;
they run right up the Esk and die away in the curve of the valley. To my
left the view is cut off by a black line of roof of the old house next
the abbey. The sheep and lambs are bleating in the fields away behind
me, and there is a clatter of a donkey's hoofs up the paved road below.
The band on the pier is playing a harsh waltz in good time, and further
along the quay there is a Salvation Army meeting in a back street.
Neither of the bands hears the other, but up here I hear and see them
both. I wonder where Jonathan is and if he is thinking of me! I wish he
were here.

_Dr. Seward's Diary._

_5 June._--The case of Renfield grows more interesting the more I get to
understand the man. He has certain qualities very largely developed;
selfishness, secrecy, and purpose. I wish I could get at what is the
object of the latter. He seems to have some settled scheme of his own,
but what it is I do not yet know. His redeeming quality is a love of
animals, though, indeed, he has such curious turns in it that I
sometimes imagine he is only abnormally cruel. His pets are of odd
sorts. Just now his hobby is catching flies. He has at present such a
quantity that I have had myself to expostulate. To my astonishment, he
did not break out into a fury, as I expected, but took the matter in
simple seriousness. He thought for a moment, and then said: "May I have
three days? I shall clear them away." Of course, I said that would do. I
must watch him.

       *       *       *       *       *

_18 June._--He has turned his mind now to spiders, and has got several
very big fellows in a box. He keeps feeding them with his flies, and
the number of the latter is becoming sensibly diminished, although he
has used half his food in attracting more flies from outside to his
room.

       *       *       *       *       *

_1 July._--His spiders are now becoming as great a nuisance as his
flies, and to-day I told him that he must get rid of them. He looked
very sad at this, so I said that he must clear out some of them, at all
events. He cheerfully acquiesced in this, and I gave him the same time
as before for reduction. He disgusted me much while with him, for when a
horrid blow-fly, bloated with some carrion food, buzzed into the room,
he caught it, held it exultantly for a few moments between his finger
and thumb, and, before I knew what he was going to do, put it in his
mouth and ate it. I scolded him for it, but he argued quietly that it
was very good and very wholesome; that it was life, strong life, and
gave life to him. This gave me an idea, or the rudiment of one. I must
watch how he gets rid of his spiders. He has evidently some deep problem
in his mind, for he keeps a little note-book in which he is always
jotting down something. Whole pages of it are filled with masses of
figures, generally single numbers added up in batches, and then the
totals added in batches again, as though he were "focussing" some
account, as the auditors put it.

       *       *       *       *       *

_8 July._--There is a method in his madness, and the rudimentary idea in
my mind is growing. It will be a whole idea soon, and then, oh,
unconscious cerebration! you will have to give the wall to your
conscious brother. I kept away from my friend for a few days, so that I
might notice if there were any change. Things remain as they were except
that he has parted with some of his pets and got a new one. He has
managed to get a sparrow, and has already partially tamed it. His means
of taming is simple, for already the spiders have diminished. Those that
do remain, however, are well fed, for he still brings in the flies by
tempting them with his food.

       *       *       *       *       *

_19 July._--We are progressing. My friend has now a whole colony of
sparrows, and his flies and spiders are almost obliterated. When I came
in he ran to me and said he wanted to ask me a great favour--a very,
very great favour; and as he spoke he fawned on me like a dog. I asked
him what it was, and he said, with a sort of rapture in his voice and
bearing:--

"A kitten, a nice little, sleek playful kitten, that I can play with,
and teach, and feed--and feed--and feed!" I was not unprepared for this
request, for I had noticed how his pets went on increasing in size and
vivacity, but I did not care that his pretty family of tame sparrows
should be wiped out in the same manner as the flies and the spiders; so
I said I would see about it, and asked him if he would not rather have a
cat than a kitten. His eagerness betrayed him as he answered:--

"Oh, yes, I would like a cat! I only asked for a kitten lest you should
refuse me a cat. No one would refuse me a kitten, would they?" I shook
my head, and said that at present I feared it would not be possible, but
that I would see about it. His face fell, and I could see a warning of
danger in it, for there was a sudden fierce, sidelong look which meant
killing. The man is an undeveloped homicidal maniac. I shall test him
with his present craving and see how it will work out; then I shall know
more.

       *       *       *       *       *

_10 p. m._--I have visited him again and found him sitting in a corner
brooding. When I came in he threw himself on his knees before me and
implored me to let him have a cat; that his salvation depended upon it.
I was firm, however, and told him that he could not have it, whereupon
he went without a word, and sat down, gnawing his fingers, in the corner
where I had found him. I shall see him in the morning early.

       *       *       *       *       *

_20 July._--Visited Renfield very early, before the attendant went his
rounds. Found him up and humming a tune. He was spreading out his sugar,
which he had saved, in the window, and was manifestly beginning his
fly-catching again; and beginning it cheerfully and with a good grace. I
looked around for his birds, and not seeing them, asked him where they
were. He replied, without turning round, that they had all flown away.
There were a few feathers about the room and on his pillow a drop of
blood. I said nothing, but went and told the keeper to report to me if
there were anything odd about him during the day.

       *       *       *       *       *

_11 a. m._--The attendant has just been to me to say that Renfield has
been very sick and has disgorged a whole lot of feathers. "My belief is,
doctor," he said, "that he has eaten his birds, and that he just took
and ate them raw!"

       *       *       *       *       *

_11 p. m._--I gave Renfield a strong opiate to-night, enough to make
even him sleep, and took away his pocket-book to look at it. The thought
that has been buzzing about my brain lately is complete, and the theory
proved. My homicidal maniac is of a peculiar kind. I shall have to
invent a new classification for him, and call him a zooephagous
(life-eating) maniac; what he desires is to absorb as many lives as he
can, and he has laid himself out to achieve it in a cumulative way. He
gave many flies to one spider and many spiders to one bird, and then
wanted a cat to eat the many birds. What would have been his later
steps? It would almost be worth while to complete the experiment. It
might be done if there were only a sufficient cause. Men sneered at
vivisection, and yet look at its results to-day! Why not advance science
in its most difficult and vital aspect--the knowledge of the brain? Had
I even the secret of one such mind--did I hold the key to the fancy of
even one lunatic--I might advance my own branch of science to a pitch
compared with which Burdon-Sanderson's physiology or Ferrier's
brain-knowledge would be as nothing. If only there were a sufficient
cause! I must not think too much of this, or I may be tempted; a good
cause might turn the scale with me, for may not I too be of an
exceptional brain, congenitally?

How well the man reasoned; lunatics always do within their own scope. I
wonder at how many lives he values a man, or if at only one. He has
closed the account most accurately, and to-day begun a new record. How
many of us begin a new record with each day of our lives?

To me it seems only yesterday that my whole life ended with my new hope,
and that truly I began a new record. So it will be until the Great
Recorder sums me up and closes my ledger account with a balance to
profit or loss. Oh, Lucy, Lucy, I cannot be angry with you, nor can I be
angry with my friend whose happiness is yours; but I must only wait on
hopeless and work. Work! work!

If I only could have as strong a cause as my poor mad friend there--a
good, unselfish cause to make me work--that would be indeed happiness.

_Mina Murray's Journal._

_26 July._--I am anxious, and it soothes me to express myself here; it
is like whispering to one's self and listening at the same time. And
there is also something about the shorthand symbols that makes it
different from writing. I am unhappy about Lucy and about Jonathan. I
had not heard from Jonathan for some time, and was very concerned; but
yesterday dear Mr. Hawkins, who is always so kind, sent me a letter from
him. I had written asking him if he had heard, and he said the enclosed
had just been received. It is only a line dated from Castle Dracula,
and says that he is just starting for home. That is not like Jonathan;
I do not understand it, and it makes me uneasy. Then, too, Lucy,
although she is so well, has lately taken to her old habit of walking in
her sleep. Her mother has spoken to me about it, and we have decided
that I am to lock the door of our room every night. Mrs. Westenra has
got an idea that sleep-walkers always go out on roofs of houses and
along the edges of cliffs and then get suddenly wakened and fall over
with a despairing cry that echoes all over the place. Poor dear, she is
naturally anxious about Lucy, and she tells me that her husband, Lucy's
father, had the same habit; that he would get up in the night and dress
himself and go out, if he were not stopped. Lucy is to be married in the
autumn, and she is already planning out her dresses and how her house is
to be arranged. I sympathise with her, for I do the same, only Jonathan
and I will start in life in a very simple way, and shall have to try to
make both ends meet. Mr. Holmwood--he is the Hon. Arthur Holmwood, only
son of Lord Godalming--is coming up here very shortly--as soon as he can
leave town, for his father is not very well, and I think dear Lucy is
counting the moments till he comes. She wants to take him up to the seat
on the churchyard cliff and show him the beauty of Whitby. I daresay it
is the waiting which disturbs her; she will be all right when he
arrives.

       *       *       *       *       *

_27 July._--No news from Jonathan. I am getting quite uneasy about him,
though why I should I do not know; but I do wish that he would write, if
it were only a single line. Lucy walks more than ever, and each night I
am awakened by her moving about the room. Fortunately, the weather is so
hot that she cannot get cold; but still the anxiety and the perpetually
being wakened is beginning to tell on me, and I am getting nervous and
wakeful myself. Thank God, Lucy's health keeps up. Mr. Holmwood has been
suddenly called to Ring to see his father, who has been taken seriously
ill. Lucy frets at the postponement of seeing him, but it does not touch
her looks; she is a trifle stouter, and her cheeks are a lovely
rose-pink. She has lost that anaemic look which she had. I pray it will
all last.

       *       *       *       *       *

_3 August._--Another week gone, and no news from Jonathan, not even to
Mr. Hawkins, from whom I have heard. Oh, I do hope he is not ill. He
surely would have written. I look at that last letter of his, but
somehow it does not satisfy me. It does not read like him, and yet it is
his writing. There is no mistake of that. Lucy has not walked much in
her sleep the last week, but there is an odd concentration about her
which I do not understand; even in her sleep she seems to be watching
me. She tries the door, and finding it locked, goes about the room
searching for the key.

_6 August._--Another three days, and no news. This suspense is getting
dreadful. If I only knew where to write to or where to go to, I should
feel easier; but no one has heard a word of Jonathan since that last
letter. I must only pray to God for patience. Lucy is more excitable
than ever, but is otherwise well. Last night was very threatening, and
the fishermen say that we are in for a storm. I must try to watch it and
learn the weather signs. To-day is a grey day, and the sun as I write is
hidden in thick clouds, high over Kettleness. Everything is grey--except
the green grass, which seems like emerald amongst it; grey earthy rock;
grey clouds, tinged with the sunburst at the far edge, hang over the
grey sea, into which the sand-points stretch like grey fingers. The sea
is tumbling in over the shallows and the sandy flats with a roar,
muffled in the sea-mists drifting inland. The horizon is lost in a grey
mist. All is vastness; the clouds are piled up like giant rocks, and
there is a "brool" over the sea that sounds like some presage of doom.
Dark figures are on the beach here and there, sometimes half shrouded in
the mist, and seem "men like trees walking." The fishing-boats are
racing for home, and rise and dip in the ground swell as they sweep into
the harbour, bending to the scuppers. Here comes old Mr. Swales. He is
making straight for me, and I can see, by the way he lifts his hat, that
he wants to talk....

I have been quite touched by the change in the poor old man. When he sat
down beside me, he said in a very gentle way:--

"I want to say something to you, miss." I could see he was not at ease,
so I took his poor old wrinkled hand in mine and asked him to speak
fully; so he said, leaving his hand in mine:--

"I'm afraid, my deary, that I must have shocked you by all the wicked
things I've been sayin' about the dead, and such like, for weeks past;
but I didn't mean them, and I want ye to remember that when I'm gone. We
aud folks that be daffled, and with one foot abaft the krok-hooal, don't
altogether like to think of it, and we don't want to feel scart of it;
an' that's why I've took to makin' light of it, so that I'd cheer up my
own heart a bit. But, Lord love ye, miss, I ain't afraid of dyin', not a
bit; only I don't want to die if I can help it. My time must be nigh at
hand now, for I be aud, and a hundred years is too much for any man to
expect; and I'm so nigh it that the Aud Man is already whettin' his
scythe. Ye see, I can't get out o' the habit of caffin' about it all at
once; the chafts will wag as they be used to. Some day soon the Angel of
Death will sound his trumpet for me. But don't ye dooal an' greet, my
deary!"--for he saw that I was crying--"if he should come this very
night I'd not refuse to answer his call. For life be, after all, only a
waitin' for somethin' else than what we're doin'; and death be all that
we can rightly depend on. But I'm content, for it's comin' to me, my
deary, and comin' quick. It may be comin' while we be lookin' and
wonderin'. Maybe it's in that wind out over the sea that's bringin' with
it loss and wreck, and sore distress, and sad hearts. Look! look!" he
cried suddenly. "There's something in that wind and in the hoast beyont
that sounds, and looks, and tastes, and smells like death. It's in the
air; I feel it comin'. Lord, make me answer cheerful when my call
comes!" He held up his arms devoutly, and raised his hat. His mouth
moved as though he were praying. After a few minutes' silence, he got
up, shook hands with me, and blessed me, and said good-bye, and hobbled
off. It all touched me, and upset me very much.

I was glad when the coastguard came along, with his spy-glass under his
arm. He stopped to talk with me, as he always does, but all the time
kept looking at a strange ship.

"I can't make her out," he said; "she's a Russian, by the look of her;
but she's knocking about in the queerest way. She doesn't know her mind
a bit; she seems to see the storm coming, but can't decide whether to
run up north in the open, or to put in here. Look there again! She is
steered mighty strangely, for she doesn't mind the hand on the wheel;
changes about with every puff of wind. We'll hear more of her before
this time to-morrow."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The chapter opens with Mina's journal, dated July 24, at Whitby . Mina has arrived in Whitby and describes the beautiful scenery of the Yorkshire region. She especially likes to walk up above the harbor to an old church where there's a great view and lots of benches and paths in the churchyard among the old graves. She's sitting up there and writing in her journal when an old man approaches her. She asks him about the old superstitions and folk tales of the area--especially one about a ghostly "White Lady." He answers with a Yorkshire accent--it might be difficult to decipher the accent as it's written in the novel, because of the dialect. Most editions of the novel have editor's notes that will explain the unfamiliar words. Otherwise, here's a quick summary: The old man tells her that all those old folk tales are just foolish talk, but he seems happy enough to tell her stories about his own life. Lucy and Mina walk up to the churchyard above the harbor together, and the old man comes over to chat again. They discuss old legends, and again the old man contradicts all of them and says they're all bologna. He even says that the words on the tombstones around them in the churchyard are lies--they say things like "beloved son" when really the son in question wasn't at all beloved. Some of them, he said, don't even mark the real resting place of the person who died; some of the dead people died at sea, and so the gravestones are marking empty tombs. After a while the old man leaves them, and Lucy and Mina talk about Lucy's upcoming marriage. The conversation makes Mina sad: She hasn't heard from Jonathan in a month and she's getting very worried. The chapter switches to Dr. Seward's diary, dated June 5. Dr. Seward notes that his patient, Renfield, has been capturing flies with the sugar from his tea and keeping them in his cell. There are so flies many in there that he tells Renfield he'll have to get rid of them. Renfield asks for three days to clear the rest of them away, and Dr. Seward agrees. Renfield has now switched to spiders. He captures them and feeds them his flies. Now there are so many spiders that Seward tells Renfield to get rid of those, too. Again, Renfield agrees--but not before he swallows a huge fly, which grosses Dr. Seward out. He gives Renfield a sleeping drug and looks at the journal Renfield has been keeping while he's snoozing. The notebook has a list of numbers and tables of addition--Renfield has been counting the flies he feeds to the spiders. Now Renfield has a tame sparrow that he lured in through the bars of his window. He's been feeding it the spiders. Renfield now has a bunch of sparrows and is almost out of spiders and flies. He asks Seward for a kitten to play with--and feed. Seward says he'll think about it, and Renfield is disappointed. Seward finds Renfield spreading out sugar on the windowsill to catch more flies. The sparrows are gone, and only a few feathers are left. Seward assumes that Renfield ate them all whole. That night, Seward gives Renfield another sleeping pill and looks at his notebook again--Renfield has, indeed, been keeping track of the numbers of flies eaten by the spiders, and the number of spiders eaten by sparrows. Seward realizes that Renfield's insanity is of a strange kind: He classifies Renfield as a "zoophagous maniac," or a "life-eating maniac." Seward focuses on his work to avoid thinking about his disappointment over Lucy. Mina is still worried about Jonathan, and now she's worried about Lucy, too, because Lucy has started walking in her sleep. She used to do it when she was a kid, but it's more dangerous now. Mina still hasn't heard from Jonathan, but at least Lucy seems healthy. Mina's worried about Lucy again: Lucy isn't walking in her sleep, but Mina describes a kind of "concentration" about her that seems weird. Lucy is excitable; Mina still hasn't heard from Jonathan. A big storm is brewing out at sea. The old man, Mr. Swales, is approaching Mina, who is sitting at her usual seat up above the town on the cliff. He says that he feels that he's going to die soon and says he's sorry if he offended either Mina or Lucy with his light talk about the dead people in the cemetery before. As he talks to Mina, he keeps looking at a strange ship approaching the harbor. He remarks that the strange ship is being steered in a weird way.