thing that was hunting him out of civilised life. He had gone from his
school, his home, his friends, fleeing from one miserable refuge to
another in the miserable country town. Eventually he had passed in
through the gates of the workhouse. It was all very vivid now--his
attempts to get back to the life he had known, like a man struggling in
the quicksands. There were the little spurts back to the town, the
well-shaped head, the face which still held some remembrance of its
distinction and its manhood erect over the quaking, broken frame; that
splendid head like a noble piece of sculpture on the summit of a
crumbling ruin. Forth he would come, the flicker of resistance, a pallid
battle-light in the eyes, a vessel that had been all but wrecked once
more standing up the harbour to meet the winds that had driven it from
the seas--and after a little battle once more taking in the sheets and
crawling back to the anchorage of the dark workhouse, there to suffer in
the old way, in secret to curse, to pray, to despair, to hope, to
contrive some little repairs to the broken physique in order that there
might be yet another journey into waters that were getting more and more
shadowy. And the day came when the only journey that could be made was a
shuffle to the gate, the haunted eyes staring into a world which was a
nightmare of regrets. How terrible was the pathos of that life, that
struggle, that tragedy, how poignant its memory while the robin sang at
the edge of the dim wood!... And there was that red-haired, defiant
young man with the build of an athlete, the eyes of an animal. How
bravely he could sing up the same road to the dark house! It was to him
as the burrow is to the rabbit. He would come out to nibble at the
regular and lawful intervals, and having nibbled return to sleep and
shout and fight for his "rights" in the dark house. And once, on a
spring day, he had come out with a companion, a pale woman in a thin
shawl and a drab skirt, and they had taken to the roads together,
himself swinging his ashplant, his stride and manner carrying the
illusion of purpose, his eyes on everything and his mind nowhere;
herself trotting over the broken stones in her canvas shoes beside him,
a pale shadow under the fire of his red head. They had gone away into a
road whose milestones were dark houses, himself singing the song of his
own life, a song of mumbled words, without air or music; herself silent,
clutching her thin shawl over