would indeed be ecstasy, but even as I so thought I heard another voice
speaking in cruel mockery. That which I should see would not be Ruth,
she would be far away, where I might never go. Yet the idea still
haunted me. I would go. It might ease the terrible madness of my soul
if I could see even in death the lips that had confessed their love for
me.

How should I accomplish my object? I remembered Bill Tregargus's
words, "She was buried in the vault under the Communion." To the
church then I would go, and I would see her face again, although it was
the face of the dead.

My first work was to go to the village sexton and get the church keys,
so when I arrived at the village I enquired for his house. I
discovered that he was a bachelor, and lived alone on the outskirts of
the village. I quickly made my way thither, and, on arriving, found
the door locked. Evidently he was out. On making further enquiries, I
found that he had that day gone to the nearest market town, and
probably would not be home until dark. It was now about noon, and,
faint and hungry, I found my way to the village alehouse, where, after
having had something to eat, I tried to think.

Since yesterday, I had lived a lifetime. Yesterday at that time I had
not arrived home, I had not seen Bill Tregargus, I knew nothing of what
had occurred. Now I was branded with the brand of a murderer. The
wild deeds I had done when I sailed the seas as a pirate scarcely
weighed on my conscience at all; but this deed, though I did not
repent, and though my hatred remained unabated, made life unendurable.

Hour after hour I sat in the parlour of the village inn, thinking,
wondering and fearing. Would the landlord be so obliging, I wondered,
if he knew what I had done; would he not loathe my presence, and
deliver me to the justice of man?

Yet who are the murderers of the world? Are they to be found among
those only who do actual murder, or are murderers a class of people who
are capable of murder? Is not every man who is not filled with Divine
love capable of murder, and are not many free from the stain of
murderous deeds merely because they have never been provoked, tempted?
Who shall judge as to who are real murderers? None but God alone!

Night drew on at length, and full of the thought which became dearer
each hour, I found again my way to the sexton's house. This time he
was at home. He stared at me in astonishment when I told him what I