e respect due
to a lord and to a better.

The man was Gwynplaine. He was making his escape. Where was he? He did
not know. We have said that the soul has its cyclones--fearful
whirlwinds, in which heaven, the sea, day, night, life, death, are all
mingled in unintelligible horror. It can no longer breathe Truth; it is
crushed by things in which it does not believe. Nothingness becomes
hurricane. The firmament pales. Infinity is empty. The mind of the
sufferer wanders away. He feels himself dying. He craves for a star.
What did Gwynplaine feel? a thirst--a thirst to see Dea.

He felt but that. To reach the Green Box again, and the Tadcaster Inn,
with its sounds and light--full of the cordial laughter of the people;
to find Ursus and Homo, to see Dea again, to re-enter life. Disillusion,
like a bow, shoots its arrow, man, towards the True. Gwynplaine hastened
on. He approached Tarrinzeau Field. He walked no longer now; he ran. His
eyes pierced the darkness before him. His glance preceded him, eagerly
seeking the harbour on the horizon. What a moment for him when he should
see the lighted windows of Tadcaster Inn!

He reached the bowling-green. He turned the corner of the wall, and saw
before him, at the other end of the field, some distance off, the
inn--the only house, it may be remembered, in the field where the fair
was held.

He looked. There was no light; nothing but a black mass.

He shuddered. Then he said to himself that it was late; that the tavern
was shut up; that it was very natural; that every one was asleep; that
he had only to awaken Nicless or Govicum; that he must go up to the inn
and knock at the door. He did so, running no longer now, but rushing.

He reached the inn, breathless. It is when, storm-beaten and struggling
in the invisible convulsions of the soul until he knows not whether he
is in life or in death, that all the delicacy of a man's affection for
his loved ones, being yet unimpaired, proves a heart true. When all else
is swallowed up, tenderness still floats unshattered. Not to awaken Dea
too suddenly was Gwynplaine's first thought. He approached the inn with
as little noise as possible. He recognized the nook, the old dog kennel,
where Govicum used to sleep. In it, contiguous to the lower room, was a
window opening on to the field. Gwynplaine tapped softly at the pane. It
would be enough to awaken Govicum, he thought.

There was no sound in Govicum's room.

"At his age," said Gwynpl