He rubbed his eyes, and gazed wildly round the room; he seemed endeavouring to rally his spirits, and call home his bewildered thoughts. In the interim, Zenna returned his magical apparatus / to his pocket, and relighted the candles. ‘Where am I?’ asked Waldorf, ‘At the hotel – here take this wine.’ Waldorf received the glass mechanically, and drank it: the magician then took the glass from his trembling hand, and Waldorf, sighing deeply, as if to ease his oppressed heart, struck his hand to his forehead, and reclined against the wall. Numberless unconnected thoughts whirled through his brain; his look was expressive of wild horror; he trembled violently; his pulse throbbed, and his heavy breath was disturbed by convulsive catchings.