ho was not without his
good points. "You know what authority is, sir."

North was in despair, but a bright thought struck him--a thought that,
in his soberer moments, would never have entered his head--he would buy
admission. He produced the rum flask from beneath the sheltering cloak.
"Come, don't talk nonsense to me, Gimblett. You don't suppose I would
come here without authority. Here, take a pull at this, and let me
through." Gimblett's features relaxed into a smile. "Well, sir, I
suppose it's all right, if you say so," said he. And clutching the rum
bottle with one hand, he opened the door of Dawes's cell with the other.

North entered, and as the door closed behind him, the prisoner, who had
been lying apparently asleep upon his bed, leapt up, and made as though
to catch him by the throat.

Rufus Dawes had dreamt a dream. Alone, amid the gathering glooms,
his fancy had recalled the past, and had peopled it with memories. He
thought that he was once more upon the barren strand where he had first
met with the sweet child he loved. He lived again his life of usefulness
and honour. He saw himself working at the boat, embarking, and putting
out to sea. The fair head of the innocent girl was again pillowed on his
breast; her young lips again murmured words of affection in his greedy
ear. Frere was beside him, watching him, as he had watched before. Once
again the grey sea spread around him, barren of succour. Once again,
in the wild, wet morning, he beheld the American brig bearing down upon
them, and saw the bearded faces of the astonished crew. He saw Frere
take the child in his arms and mount upon the deck; he heard the shout
of delight that went up, and pressed again the welcoming hands which
greeted the rescued castaways. The deck was crowded. All the folk he had
ever known were there. He saw the white hair and stern features of
Sir Richard Devine, and beside him stood, wringing her thin hands, his
weeping mother. Then Frere strode forward, and after him John Rex,
the convict, who, roughly elbowing through the crowd of prisoners and
gaolers, would have reached the spot where stood Sir Richard Devine, but
that the corpse of the murdered Lord Bellasis arose and thrust him back.
How the hammers clattered in the shipbuilder's yard! Was it a coffin
they were making? Not for Sylvia--surely not for her! The air grows
heavy, lurid with flame, and black with smoke. The Hydaspes is on fire!
Sylvia clings to her husband