own reward. And
before you covet the enjoyment which another possesses, you must first
calculate the cost at which it was procured.--FREDERICK W. ROBERTSON.

Morton Hall was about thirty-five miles from Trewinion, in a
south-easterly direction. It lay on the opposite side of the county,
and the country between was hilly, but fertile. I did not know the
road well, but I knew it well enough for my purpose. By travelling at
the rate of four miles an hour I could reach the Hall in nine hours. I
could give no reason for going thither except that I was drawn by an
irresistible power, a power by means of which I hoped to quench the
awful fires in my soul.

The night was clear, and the stars shone brightly overhead. These I
had studied through the long years of my seafaring life and so knew
their location well. Fixing on one which lay in the direction in which
I desired to go, I followed it as my guide.

To analyse the feelings that possessed me that night would be
impossible. One hears sometimes of a murderer "escaping." That may
never be. The officers of the law may not suspect him, the hangman's
rope may never come near him, but no murderer escapes. He never
escapes the terrible undefinable fear which constantly dogs him, the
ghastly gnawing which eats at his heart.

At every step I saw my brother Wilfred. I constantly heard his voice,
and every footfall spoke of what I had done. The hedges were full of
grinning devils, which mocked me, while the stars that spangled the sky
spelt the word that was dragging me deeper into hell.

Time after time I tried to comfort myself with the thought that I did
not intentionally kill him, that it was an accident which caused him to
fall upon those cruel rocks hundreds of feet below, but I found no
comfort in the thought. I could not get rid of the fact that I hated
my brother, and that whosoever hateth his brother is a murderer. Even
had I not done the deed, even had Wilfred been alive, I was still a
murderer at heart. I had hated him alive, I hated him still, and even
now I had no sorrow at what I had done.

On, on I went, wildly yet wearily; tired I was, but I never rested, nor
abated my speed, and ever as I went ghastly thoughts tormented me. Now
I pictured him lying bruised and bleeding among the rocks, alive yet
helpless; and as he lay I saw the tide rising all around him, and
laughing at his cries for help. Then I saw him a ghastly, mis-shapen
mass, crushe