Reverend Percy Langdon has been conversing with his wife about the future career of their only boy. Conscious of Oswald's brilliant powers and high ambitions, both feel a natural sense of parental pride in this son who is their one earthly hope. The fond mother talks of this manly, stalwart youth, using childhood's endearing terms, and expresses solicitude for his present welfare, while the father, with habitual sense of superior perception, positively but tenderly allays her fears.

"Oswald is safe anywhere. Our boy can be trusted in any emergency. He will make his mark. I wonder what position Oswald will occupy in a few years! How proud he is of his mother!"

"But, Percy, dear, Ossie has his father's temper and is so self-willed at times!"

"Now go to sleep, little mother!"

A hurried knock is heard at the front door. Startled by such early, unexpected call, there is no response. The knock is repeated loudly, and the bell rings. Springing up, the rector cautiously opens the door, when a dusty figure hastily pushes into the dark hall.

Reverend Percy Langdon grapples with the intruder, who holds on, but attempts no violence. "Father!" is the low-spoken greeting. "Don't frighten mother, and I will explain."

After some hurried talk, sobs, and heart-breaking good-bys, a figure steals out in the dawning light, and starts for Southampton.

Oswald walked rapidly. After about two hours he was overtaken by a man driving a horse attached to a buckboard. He received a hearty invitation to take a ride. He learned that the man was going ten miles, to meet a friend on business. To all questions Oswald gave evasive replies. At nine o'clock they arrived at the place named. Oswald walked on until noon, when he sat down in a secluded spot and ate a meal. Resuming his journey, he soon reached a small station. Here he boarded a train for Southampton, arriving at his destination without noteworthy incident.

He lodged at a cheap sort of an inn. Finding that a steamer left the next morning for Calcutta, he gave orders to call him in proper time.

Having purchased passage, Oswald is at the wharf, disguised in ill-fitting duster and broad-brimmed hat, ready to embark. Some rough-looking men are at the dock, to whom this seedy stranger is a butt of much coarse comment. Incensed at their ridicule, Oswald longs to chastise them, but moves away.

Noting the evident wish of their victim to escape further abuse, these follow. Oswald stops short, but says nothing. A powerful bully, posing as leader, steps on Oswald's foot, aiming a blow at his drooping headgear. A terrific left-hander shoots out, encountering the jaw of our swaggering tough, who strikes the resounding planks with little ceremony. Two more rush at Oswald, when, dropping his satchel, both stretch their lengths on the wharf from right and left hand blows dealt almost together. Just then the bell sounds for departure, when a big officer comes up, puffing with surplus fat and official importance. Seeing three men stretched out, and learning that the odd-looking fellow then hurrying on board is the cause, he brandishes his club, striking Oswald on the shoulder, in pompous tones announcing his arrest. Oswald remonstrates, and attempts to explain that he is not the aggressor, but to all such, this swelling representative of the Crown's outraged dignity turns a deaf ear.

Giving a rough push, the officer starts away with his prisoner.

Oswald has great respect for constituted authority, but conscious of the complications which may result through delay, and smarting under the uncalled-for arrogance of this guardian of the public peace, drops his valise, and with two quick blows so completely paralyzes this uniformed official, that he fails to respond until after the vessel is under way.

When on board Oswald discards his long duster and broad brim.

No one recognizes in his dignified air of indifference the personnel of that drooping pedestrian who had electrified onlookers with such skillful sledge-hammer blows, so disastrous to bully insolence and official conceit.

Gradually Oswald's tense faculties relax, and an overwhelming reactive despondency takes possession of his being.

The experiences of the last few days pass before his vision. Retrospect is terrible. In this maze it avails not that he is guiltless of crime. The circumstances affirm his criminality. Is he not a refugee from justice?

Sitting alone upon the upper deck, he thus interrogates himself:

"Why not return, face my accusers, and know the worst? Why flee from the specter of a crime committed by another? Are my hands stained with human blood? Is not my soul blameless?"

Then in bitterness he says:

"Yes, return and be hung! Listen to adroitly narrated lies of detectives, caring only for vindication of their theories of guilt! Witness the heartless curiosity of vulgar crowds feasting on rumor and depraved gossip! Meet the cold, relentless gaze of those demanding satisfaction of outraged law! Hear the distorted evidence of witnesses, the impassioned appeal of the public prosecutor, as with hypocritical craft he urges the jury to hang no innocent man, and then pleads with them not to make the law a byword by turning loose a red-handed murderer! Watch the judge with solemn gravity adjust his glasses, preparatory to a dignified summing-up, conclusive of the prisoner's guilt! See the set lips of the 'unbiased twelve' as they retire for consideration of their verdict! Sit crushed under the terrible 'Guilty' and bootless, formal blasphemy, 'May God have mercy on your soul'! With pinioned arms and bandaged eyes hear the suppressed hum of mob—and then—the awful black!"

As these thoughts surged through his mind, Oswald registered a vow never to expiate the crime of another. "I will wander over the earth until old age; will face every danger of desert wilds; will resist to death any efforts for my arrest; but no gallows ever shall be erected for Oswald Langdon."

The injustice of his position confronted him with such force that Oswald felt defiant of all law. He would be an "Ishmaelite," finding "casus belli" in all the purposes of fate.

The instinct of self-defense and gravity of his position precluded sympathetic feeling for friends innocently involved in results of the tragedy. Such sentiments will come when present stress is less imminent.

Emerging from the English Channel, they are in the Bay of Biscay. A storm is raging. Sailors fear wreck, but Oswald feels not a tremor. What are ocean's pending perils to this human castaway, about whose hunted soul seem closing the tentacles of fate?

Roar of tempest, blinding electric flash, rushing wave, descending spray, creaking timbers, with instinctive ravening of ocean's hungry hordes, are luring, friendly greetings compared to merciless clamor of that receding shore.

Spending its spasmodic heat, the storm subsides, and the ship plows on toward destined port.