e this day, say what ye will:
and then you would not have the heart to let me spend two pounds twelve
and sixpence for nothing."

Whether the last most Caledonian argument conquered or not, Mr. Bowie
got the licence, was married before breakfast the next morning, and
started for the Crimea at four o'clock in the afternoon; most
astonished, as he confided in the train to Sergeant MacArthur, "to see a
lassie that never gave him a kind word in her life, and had not been
married but barely six hours, greet and greet at his going, till she
vanished away into hystericals. They're a very unfathomable species,
Sergeant, are they women; and if they were taken out o' man, they took
the best part o' Adam wi' them, and left us to shift with the worse."

But to return to Campbell. The last week has altered him frightfully. He
is no longer the stern, self-possessed warrior which he was; he no
longer even walks upright; his cheek is pale, his eye dull; his whole
countenance sunken together. And now that the excitement of anxiety is
past, he draws his feet along the pavement slowly, his hands clasped
behind him, his eyes fixed on the ground, as if the life was gone from
out of him, and existence was a heavy weight.

"She is safe, at least, then! One burden off my mind. And yet had it not
been better if that pure spirit had returned to Him who gave it, instead
of waking again to fresh misery? I must find that man! Why, I have been
saying so to myself for seven days past, and yet no ray of light. Can
the coward have given me a wrong address? Yet why give me an address at
all if he meant to hide from me? Why, I have been saying that too, to
myself every day for the last week? Over and over again the same dreary
round of possibilities and suspicions. However, I must be quiet now, if
I am a man. I can hear nothing before the detective comes at two. How to
pass the weary, weary time? For I am past thinking--almost past praying
--though not quite, thank God!"

He paces up still noisy Piccadilly, and then up silent Bond Street;
pauses to look at some strange fish on Groves's counter--anything to
while away the time; then he plods on toward the top of the street, and
turns into Mr. Pillischer's shop, and upstairs to the microscopic
club-room. There, at least, he can forget himself for an hour.

He looks round the neat pleasant little place, with its cases of
curiosities, and its exquisite photographs, and bright brass
instruments; its glas