So it was then with the wretched Elsley; within his mind a whole train of devil’s advocates seemed arguing, with triumphant subtlety, the certainty of Lucia’s treason; and justifying to him his rage, his hatred, his flight, his desertion of his own children,—­if indeed (so far had the devil led him astray) they were his own.  At last he could bear it no longer.  He would escape to Bangor, and then to London, cross to France, to Italy, and there bury himself amid the forests of the Apennines, or the sunny glens of Calabria.  And for a moment the vision of a poet’s life in that glorious land brightened his dark imagination.  Yes!  He would escape thither, and be at peace; and if the world heard of him again, it should be in such a thunder-voice, as those with which Shelley and Byron, from their southern seclusion, had shaken the ungrateful motherland which cast them out.  He would escape; and now was the time to do it!  For the rain had long since ceased; the dawn was approaching fast; the cloud was thinning from black to pearly grey.  Now was his time—­were it not for those two men!  To be kept, guarded, stopped by them, or by any man!  Shameful! intolerable!  He had fled hither to be free, and even here he found himself a prisoner.  True, they had promised to let him go if he waited till daylight; but perhaps they were deceiving him, as he was deceiving them—­why not?  They thought him mad.  It was a ruse, a stratagem, to keep him quiet awhile, and then bring him back,—­“restore him to his afflicted friends.”  His friends, truly!  He would be too cunning for them yet.  And even if they meant to let him go, would he accept liberty from them, or any man?  No; he was free!  He had a right to go; and go he would, that moment!

He raised himself cautiously.  The lanthorn had burned to the socket:  and he could not see the men, though they were not four yards off; but by their regular and heavy breathing he could tell that they both slept soundly.  He slipped from under the plaid; drew off his shoes, for fear of noise among the rocks, and rose.  What if he did make a noise?  What if they woke, chased him, brought him back by force?  Curse the thought!—­ And gliding close to them, he listened again to their heavy breathing.

How could he prevent their following him?

A horrible, nameless temptation came over him.  Every vein in his body throbbed fire; his brain seemed to swell to bursting; and ere he was aware, he found himself feeling about in the darkness for a loose stone.

He could not find one.  Thank God that he could not find one!  But after that dreadful thought had once crossed his mind, he must flee from that place ere the brand of Cain be on his brow.