ruise, to smash, to strangle! Whom?
Everyone; his father, his brother, the dead man, his mother!

He hurried off homeward. What was he going to do?

As he passed a turret close to the signal mast the strident howl of
the fog-horn went off in his very face. He was so startled that he
nearly fell, and shrank back as far as the granite parapet. The
steamer which was the first to reply seemed to be quite near and was
already at the entrance, the tide having risen.

Pierre turned round and could discern its red eye dim through the fog.
Then, in the broad light of the electric lanterns, a huge black shadow
crept up between the piers. Behind him the voice of the lookout man,
the hoarse voice of an old retired sea-captain, shouted:

"What ship?" And out of the fog the voice of the pilot standing on
deck--not less hoarse--replied:

"The Santa Lucia."

"Where from?"

"Italy."

"What port?"

"Naples."

And before Pierre's bewildered eyes rose as he fancied, the fiery
pennon of Vesuvius, while, at the foot of the volcano, fire-flies
danced in the orange-groves of Sorrento or Castellamare. How often had
he dreamed of these familiar names as if he knew the scenery. Oh, if
he might but go away, now at once, never mind whither, and never come
back, never write, never let any one know what had become of him! But
no, he must go home--home to his father's house, and go to bed.

He would not. Come what might he would not go in; he would stay there
till daybreak. He liked the roar of the fog-horns. He pulled himself
together and began to walk up and down like an officer on watch.

Another vessel was coming in behind the other, huge and mysterious. An
English Indiaman, homeward bound.

He saw several more come in, one after another, out of the
impenetrable vapor. Then, as the damp became quite intolerable, Pierre
set out toward the town. He was so cold that he went into a sailors'
tavern to drink a glass of grog, and when the hot and pungent liquor
had scorched his mouth and throat he felt a hope revive within him.

Perhaps he was mistaken. He knew his own vagabond unreason so well! No
doubt he was mistaken. He had piled up the evidence as a charge is
drawn up against an innocent person, whom it is always so easy to
convict when we wish to think him guilty. When he should have slept he
would think differently.

Then he went in and to bed, and by sheer force of will he at last
dropped asleep.

CHAPTER V

But the doct