s, a flood of eloquence. Princes with
brains, princes leaders, princes flowers of the land, he had offered
them! princes that should sway assemblies, and not stultify the precepts
of a decent people 'by making you pay in the outrage of your morals
for what you seem to gain in policy.' These or similar words. The whole
scene was too grotesque and afflicting. But his command of his hearers
was extraordinary, partly a consolation I thought, until, having touched
the arm of one of the gentlemen of the banquet and said, 'I am his son;
I wish to remove him,' the reply enlightened me: 'I 'm afraid there's
danger in interrupting him; I really am.'

They were listening obediently to one whom they dared not interrupt for
fear of provoking an outburst of madness.

I had to risk it. His dilated eyes looked ready to seize on me for an
illustration. I spoke peremptorily, and he bowed his head low, saying,
'My son, gentlemen,' and submitted himself to my hands. The feasters
showed immediately that they felt released by rising and chatting in
groups. Alderman Saddlebank expressed much gratitude to me for the
service I had performed. 'That first half of your father's speech was
the most pathetic thing I ever heard!' I had not shared his privilege,
and could not say. The remark was current that a great deal was true of
what had been said of the Fitzs. My father leaned heavily on my arm with
the step and bent head of an ancient pensioner of the Honourable City
Company. He was Julia Bulsted's charge, and I was on board the foreign
vessel weighing anchor from England before dawn of Janet's marriage-day.

CHAPTER LVI. CONCLUSION

The wind was high that morning. The rain came in gray rings, through
which we worked on the fretted surface of crumbling seas, heaving up and
plunging, without an outlook.

I remember having thought of the barque Priscilla as I watched our lithe
Dalmatians slide along the drenched decks of the Verona frigate.
At night it blew a gale. I could imagine it to have been sent
providentially to brush the torture of the land from my mind, and make
me feel that men are trifles.

What are their passions, then? The storm in the clouds--even more
short-lived than the clouds.

I philosophized, but my anguish was great.

Janet's 'Good-bye, Harry,' ended everything I lived for, and seemed to
strike the day, and bring out of it the remorseless rain. A featureless
day, like those before the earth was built; like night