He remembered how he had said, “I will redeem him with my own blood!” Was it possible that a just Heaven had thus decided to allow the man whom a coward had condemned, to escape, and to punish the coward who remained? Oh, this man deserved freedom; he was honest, noble, truthful! How different from himself—a hateful self-lover, an unchaste priest, a drunkard. The looking-glass, in which the saintly face of Meekin was soon to be reflected, stood upon the table, and North, peering into it, with one hand mechanically thrust into the bag, started in insane rage at the pale face and bloodshot eyes he saw there. What a hateful wretch he had become! The last fatal impulse of insanity which seeks relief from its own hideous self came upon him, and his fingers closed convulsively upon the object they had been seeking.
“It is better so,” he muttered, addressing, with fixed eyes, his own detested image. “I have examined you long enough. I have read your heart, and written out your secrets! You are but a shell—the shell that holds a corrupted and sinful heart. He shall live; you shall die!” The rapid motion of his arm overturned the candle, and all was dark.
Rufus Dawes, overpowered by the revelation so suddenly made to him, had remained for a few moments motionless in his cell, expecting to hear the heavy clang of the outer door, which should announce to him the departure of the chaplain. But he did not hear it, and it seemed to him that the air in the cell had grown suddenly cooler. He went to the door, and looked into the narrow corridor, expecting to see the scowling countenance of Gimblett. To his astonishment the door of the prison was wide open, and not a soul in sight. His first thought was of North. Had the story he had told, coupled with the entreaties he had lavished, sufficed to turn him from his purpose?
He looked around. The night was falling suddenly; the wind was mounting; from beyond the bar came the hoarse murmur of an angry sea. If the schooner was to sail that night, she had best get out into deep waters. Where was the chaplain? Pray Heaven the delay had been sufficient, and they had sailed without him. Yet they would be sure to meet. He advanced a few steps nearer, and looked about him. Was it possible that, in his madness, the chaplain had been about to commit some violence which had drawn the trusty Gimblett from his post? “Gr-r-r-r! Ouph!” The trusty Gimblett was lying at his feet—dead drunk!
“Hi! Hiho! Hillo there!” roared somebody from the jetty below. “Be that you, Muster Noarth? We ain't too much tiam, sur!”
From the uncurtained windows of the chaplain's house on the hill beamed the newly-lighted candle. They in the boat did not see it, but it brought to the prisoner a wild hope that made his heart bound. He ran back to the cell, clapped on North's wide-awake, and flinging the cloak hastily about him, came quickly down the steps. If the moon should shine out now!
“Jump in, sir,” said unsuspecting Mannix, thinking only of the flogging he had been threatened with. “It'll be a dirty night, this night! Put this over your knees, sir. Shove her off! Give way!” And they were afloat. But one glimpse of moonlight fell upon the slouched hat and cloaked figure, and the boat's crew, engaged in the dangerous task of navigating the reef in the teeth of the rising gale, paid no attention to the chaplain.
“By George, lads, we're but just in time!” cried Mannix; and they laid alongside the schooner, black in blackness. “Up ye go, yer honour, quick!” The wind had shifted, and was now off the shore. Blunt, who had begun to repent of his obstinacy, but would not confess it, thought the next best thing to riding out the gale was to get out to open sea. “Damn the parson,” he had said, in all heartiness; “we can't wait all night for him. Heave ahead, Mr. Johnson!” And so the anchor was atrip as Rufus Dawes ran up the side.
The Commandant, already pulling off in his own boat, roared a coarse farewell. “Good-bye, North! It was touch and go with ye!” adding, “Curse the fellow, he's too proud to answer!”
The chaplain indeed spoke to no one, and plunging down the hatchway, made for the stern cabins. “Close shave, your reverence!” said a respectful somebody, opening a door. It was; but the clergyman did not say so. He double-locked the door, and hardly realizing the danger he had escaped, flung himself on the bunk, panting. Over his head he heard the rapid tramp of feet and the cheery,