very glad you have come," he said; "we don't
know what to do. Would you like to go up to
him at once?"

"See here, my friend," said the captain,
pinching his arm privately; "are you sure, now,
we'd better go up first, eh?"

"I don't know what to say, sir," said the
innkeeper, "whether he is ill or no. They
attacked him in the street and beat him. But
he has been up all the day and night, and says
he is well."

They all went up together: in a small room
on the first floor they found him lying on a
sofa, with the old wild eyes and inflamed cheeks
— now wilder and more inflamed. He gave a
cry as she entered, and half started up.

"Ah! come at last!" he said. "I knew you
would."

He looked as if he were in a fever, and yet he
said over and over again that he was well —
perfectly well now. When he had sent up, he
thought he was "done." "A set of blackguards,"
he said, "insulted me, and when I
tried to give them a lesson  — and I marked some
of them finely, I can tell you — they got round
me, with sticks, too, and I had nothing, nothing
in the world! What could I do against a half-dozen?
They did give me a beating, though —
battered my head in, I believe; and only for
our friend there, "pointing to the landlord, "it
would have been all up with me on the spot."

The landlord explained later to the captain
that it was as cruel and cowardly an attack as
he ever saw; and that but for him the unfortunate
young man had been lying dead there
on the paving-stones. He supposed he was now
all right —at least he said he was.

Ross caught her hand, held it, and looked at
her again and again. "So you have come!" he
said. "I was sure you would. I knew you
wouldn't leave a poor cast-off fellow, driven out
of the country, without a hope or a chance!
Yes, he's done it. He's beaten me at last. The
odds were too great. My dear captain — no
money — no means — no strength even."

"Nonsense, my boy," said the captain;
"you'll get all that where you're going, and
come home in a few years full of money and
strength — both. That you will."

Ada had been looking at him with gentle
pity and sadness. Then she said with some reproach:

"Why did you do this? — send for me in this
way? I thought you were ill and dying."

"And so I was," he said, with a strange solemnity.
"Before Heaven, I was! As I sit here,
I was! Ask the landlord there. Wasn't I insensible
for hours? And at this moment," he
added, putting his hand to his head, " I don't
know what is the matter here. There is a ball
of lead there. No matter; they haven't killed
me yet.

"Have you seen a doctor?" said she,
anxiously; "surely you ought."

"To get me ready to go on board to-morrow.
Don't be afraid, you'll be rid of me. If I should
be half-dying, at twelve to-morrow I'll go. Now,
is your mind at rest?"

"No, no," said the captain, "that wouldn't
do. See here now, lie sensible, and don't let us
do things in a hurry. I'll go now and knock
up a doctor, and bring him here in no time."

"Stay where you are, captain," said Ross.
Then to her: "And so you came down to
me — left him and all. I suppose he was
storming. O, it was very good of you; very
like your own old sweet self. If you hadn't,
I'd have gone up to you. Doctors, indeed?
The sight of you has done me good. What
shall I do without you?"

"You are beginning a new life now, dear
Ross," she said, gravely, "and are to leave all
follies behind. The greatest pride and the
greatest good news you can send us is, that you
are steady and doing well. If you want to make
me happy —"

"How easy you can talk!" he said, starting
up. "Listen to her; just listen to her! Steady,
indeed! Who made me unsteady? What made
me unsteady? What ruined and undone me,
and turned me into a wretched outcast? You,
Ada! It is your doing. You sold yourself
for money, for — "

"Hush!" she answered, in equal excitement;
"I did not. It is too late to speak of that."

"Yes, for money," he went on, "and for
gratitude, and suffering innocence; and it has
served you right. It looks like the judgment
good people are always talking of. For where
is the money now? and as for the innocence,
you know — "

She caught his arm, and with an imploring
look, said: "Not here! I know and confess;
but not here."

He looked at her for a moment with some
triumph; then said: "Poor, poor Ada! I am
sorry too. We might have been very happy.
No matter; as you say, all that is gone and
past. The only thing left is to ship me; and
you may depend on me for that. Ah, captain,
I have been treated cruelly among them all.
They have beaten me. She was mine— always
meant to be for me. She was, and she knows
it; but I do not blame her. My poor Ada!
Even as it is, it is better for her. My poor,
sweet girl, I shall never, never, see you again.
Life seems to be worn out of me. But I
have not been so bad altogether. I have been
worried, and hunted, and persecuted; and
I dare say, if I had got fair play like other
fellows, captain, I might have turned out decently.
I give you my honour, as a living man,
I always laid out, when I had got her, to begin
and be good. I did indeed. She would have
been the saving of me, and I shouldn't have
been the wretched—convict (for they are shipping
me like a convict) that I am now."

It was long past midnight when they left
him, promising to see him again in the morning
down at the ship — the Promised Land — which
was to sail at twelve.

CHAPTER XXXIII. HOME AGAIN.

BY the time that the Promised Land, long
clear of the docks, had cast off her steam-tug,
and was well out at sea, with darkness