I recollect that during my walk a hymn was always haunting me. It was the same that we used to sing in the shuddering darkness of that perpetual night, when we stood (fifty downhearted men) under the shelter of our snow camp, with a ninety mile blizzard shrieking above us:
"Lead, kindly Light, amid th' encircling gloom,
Lead Thou me on."
But the light was within me now, and I knew as certainly as that the good ship was under my feet that I was being carried home at the call of the Spirit to rescue my stricken darling.
God keep her on her solitary way! England! England! England! Less than a week and I should be there!
That was early hours on Saturday morning—the very Saturday when my poor little woman, after she had been turned away by those prating philanthropists, was being sheltered by the prostitute.
Let him explain it who can. I cannot.
M.C.
[END OF MARTIN CONRAD'S MEMORANDUM]