  But thou
need’st not have misgivings.  He is my sister’s son; are not his voice,
his face, his form, familiar to me from his cradle? Madness can do all
the odd conflicting things thou seest in him, and more.  Dost not recall
how that the old Baron Marley, being mad, forgot the favour of his
own countenance that he had known for sixty years, and held it was
another’s; nay, even claimed he was the son of Mary Magdalene, and that
his head was made of Spanish glass; and, sooth to say, he suffered none
to touch it, lest by mischance some heedless hand might shiver it?  Give
thy misgivings easement, good my lord.