At dinner there was a new patient, very mild and silent, with a beautiful mild brown eye like some gentle animal’s.  Alfred contrived to say some kind word to him; and the newcomer handled his forelock, and announced himself as William Thompson, adding, with simple pride, “Able seaman, just come aboard, your honour.”

At night Alfred dreamed he heard Julia’s sweet, mellow voice speaking to him; and lo, it was the able seaman.  He slept no more, but lay sighing.

The matron told him this was David Dodd, Alfred redoubled his efforts to escape, and at last one of the keepers consented to help him off.  He was sitting on his bed full dressed, full of hope, his money in his pocket, waiting for his liberator.  Every moment he expected to hear the key in the door.

Then came a smell of burning, and feet ran up and down.  “Fire!” rang from men’s voices.  Fire cracked above his head; he sprang up at the window, and dashed his hand through it, and fell back.  He sprang again, and caught the woodwork; it gave way, and he fell back, nearly stunning himself.  The flames roared fearfully now, and David, thinking it was a tempest, shouted appropriate orders.  Alfred implored him, and got him to kneel down with him, and prayed.  He gave up all hope, and prepared to die.

Crash!  As if discharged from a cannon, came bursting through the window a helmeted figure, rope in hand, and alighted erect and commanding on the floor.  All three faces came together, and Edward recognised his father and Alfred Hardie.  Edward clawed his rope to the bed, and hauled up a rope ladder, crying, “Now, men, quick for your lives!” But poor David called that deserting the ship, and demurred, till Alfred assured him the captain had ordered it.  He then touched his forelock to Edward, and went down the ladder.  Alfred followed.

They were at once overpowered with curiosity and sympathy, and had to shake a hundred hands.

“Gently, good friends; don’t part us,” said Alfred.

“He’s the keeper,” said one of the crowd, and all helped them to the back door.

Alfred ran off across country for bare life.  To his horror, David followed him, shouting cheerily, “Go ahead, messmate, I smell blue water.”

“Come on, then!” cried Alfred, half mad himself; and the pair ran furiously the livelong night.  Free!

IV.—­Into Smooth Waters

Exhilarated by freedom, Alfred began to nurse aspiring projects; he would indict his own father and the doctor, and wipe off the stigma they had cast on him.  Meantime, he would cure David and restore him to his family.  They bowled along towards blue water with a perfect sense of security.  But at Folkestone, David disappeared, and Alfred, hearing as he ran wildly all over the place that there was “another party on the same lay”—­the mad gentleman’s wife—­took the first train to London, dispirited and mortified.  David was in good hands, however, and Alfred had glorious work on hand—­love and justice.