the pestilential breath of a far-away, unhealthy
land.

In his hours of greatest suffering he had never felt himself so sunk
in a foul pit of misery. It was as though he had given the last wrench;
there was no fibre of attachment left. In tearing up the roots of every
affection he had not hitherto had the distressful feeling which now came
over him, like that of a lost dog. It was no longer a torturing mortal
pain, but the frenzy of a forlorn and homeless animal, the physical
anguish of a vagabond creature without a roof for shelter, lashed by the
rain, the wind, the storm, all the brutal forces of the universe. As he
set foot on the vessel, as he went into the cabin rocked by the waves,
the very flesh of the man, who had always slept in a motionless and
steady bed, had risen up against the insecurity henceforth of all his
morrows. Till now that flesh had been protected by a solid wall built
into the earth which held it, by the certainty of resting in the same
spot, under a roof which could resist the gale. Now all that, which it
was a pleasure to defy in the warmth of home, must become a peril and
a constant discomfort. No earth under foot, only the greedy, heaving,
complaining sea; no space around for walking, running, losing the way,
only a few yards of planks to pace like a convict among other prisoners;
no trees, no gardens, no streets, no houses; nothing but water and
clouds. And the ceaseless motion of the ship beneath his feet. On stormy
days he must lean against the wainscot, hold on to the doors, cling to
the edge of the narrow berth to save himself from rolling out. On calm
days he would hear the snorting throb of the screw, and feel the
swift flight of the ship, bearing him on in its unpausing, regular,
exasperating race.

And he was condemned to this vagabond convict's life solely because his
mother had yielded to a man's caresses.

He walked on, his heart sinking with the despairing sorrow of those who
are doomed to exile. He no longer felt a haughty disdain and scornful
hatred of the strangers he met, but a woeful impulse to speak to them,
to tell them all that he had to quit France, to be listened to and
comforted. There was in the very depths of his heart the shame-faced
need of a beggar who would fain hold out his hand--a timid but urgent
need to feel that some one would grieve at his departing.

He thought of Marowsko. The old Pole was the only person who loved
him well enough to feel true and kee