His laugh was forced, feverish, and unnatural. Hawbury didn't like it,
and tried to change the subject.

"Oh, by-the-way," said he, "you needn't have any further trouble about
any of them. You don't seem inclined to take any definite action, so
the action will be taken for you."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that they are all going to leave Naples."

"To leave Naples!"

Dacres uttered this in a voice of grief and surprise which astonished
Hawbury and touched him.

"Yes," he said. "You know they've been here long enough. They want to
see Rome. Holy-week, you know. No end of excitement. Illumination of
St. Peter's, and all that sort of thing, you know."

Dacres relapsed into sombre silence. For more than half an hour he did
not say a word. Hawbury respected his mood, and watched him with
something approaching to anxiety.

"Hawbury," said he at last.

"Well, old man?"

"I'm going to Rome."

"You--to Rome!"

"Yes, me, to Rome."

"Oh, nonsense! See here, old boy. You'd really better not, you know.
Break it up. You can't do any thing."

"I'm going to Rome," repeated Dacres, stolidly. "I've made up my
mind."

"But, really," remonstrated Hawbury. "See here now, my dear fellow;
look here, you know. By Jove! you don't consider, really."

"Oh yes, I do. I know every thing; I consider every thing."

"But what good will it do?"

"It won't do any good; but it may prevent some evil."

"Nothing but evil can ever come of it."

"Oh, no evil need necessarily come of it."

"By Jove!" exclaimed Hawbury, who began to be excited. "Really, my
dear fellow, you don't think. You see you can't gain any thing. She's
surrounded by friends, you know. She never can be yours, you know.
There's a great gulf between you, and all that sort of thing, you
know."

"Yes," repeated Dacres, catching his last words--"yes, a great gulf,
as deep as the bottomless abyss, never to be traversed, where she
stands on one side, and I on the other, and between us hate, deep and
pitiless hate, undying, eternal!"

"Then, by Jove! my dear fellow, what's the use of trying to fight
against it? You can't do any thing. If this were Indiana, now, or even
New York, I wouldn't say any thing, you know; but you know an Indiana
divorce wouldn't do _you_ any good. Her friends wouldn't take you on
those terms--and she wouldn't. Not she, by Jove!"

"I _must_ go. I must follow her," continued Dacres. "The sight of her
has roused a devil within me that I