But it was there that he was discovered by Frederick Harrington, who had pursued the destroyer with a perseverance that was indomitable, and scoffed at disappointment.  How the lunatic existed no one knew; how he steered clear of transgression and restraint was equally difficult to explain.  It was evident enough that he made himself acquainted with the haunts of his former schoolfellow; and, in one of them, he rushed furiously and unexpectedly upon him, affrighting his intended victim, but failing in his purpose of vengeance by the very impetuosity of his assault.  Temple escaped.  Then it was that the latter, shaken by fear, revealed to his brother the rise of progress of his intimacy with the discarded girl, and, in his extremity, called upon him for advice and help.  He could afford him none; and the seducer found himself in the world without an hour’s happiness or quiet.  What quails so readily as the heartiest soul of the sensualist?  Who so cowardly as the man only courageous in his oppression of the weak?  The spirit of Temple was laid prostrate.  He walked, and eat, and slept, in base and dastard fear.  Locks and bolts could not secure him from dismal apprehensions.  A sound shook him, as the unseen wind makes the tall poplar shudder—­a voice struck terror in his ear, and sickness to recreant heart.  He could not be alone—­for alarm was heightened by the speaking conscience that pronounced it just.  He journeyed from place to place, his brother ever at his side, and the shadow of the avenger ever stalking in the rear, and impelling the weary wanderer still onward.  The health of the sufferer gave way.  To preserve his life, he was ordered to the south-western coast.  His faithful brother was his companion still.  He had not received a week’s benefit from the mild and grateful climate—­he was scarcely settled in the tranquil village in which they had fixed their residence, before the old terror was made manifest, and hunted the unhappy man away.  Whilst sitting at his window, and gazing with something of delight upon the broad and smooth blue sea—­for who can look, criminal though he be, upon that glorious sheet in summer time, when the sky is bright with beauty, and the golden sun is high, and not lose somewhat of the heavy sense of guilt—­not glow, it may be, with returning gush of childhood’s innocence, long absent, and coming now only to reproach and then depart?—­whilst sitting there and thus, the sick man’s notice was invited to a crowd of yelling boys, who had amongst them one, the tallest of their number, whom they dragged along for punishment or sport.  He was an idiot.  Who he was none knew so well as the pale man that looked upon him, who could not drag his eye away, so lost was it in wonder, so transfixed with horror.  The invalid remained no longer there.  Fast as horses could convey him, he journeyed homeward; and, in the bosom of his natural protectors, he sought for peace he could not gain elsewhere.  Here he remained, the slave of fear, the conscience-stricken, diseased