He thought of that letter he had sent away, and cursed his own folly.  So long as she was bound by her promise he knew he could marry her when he pleased, but now he had voluntarily released her.  In a couple of weeks she would hold her manumission in her hands; the past would no longer have any power over her; if ever they met they would meet as mere acquaintances.  Every moment the prize slipping out of his grasp seemed to grow more valuable; his vexation with himself grew intolerable; he suddenly resolved that he would make a wild effort to get back that fatal letter.

He had sat communing with himself for over an hour:  all the household was fast asleep.  He would not wake any one, for fear of being compelled to give explanations; so he noiselessly crept along the dark passages until he got to the door, which he carefully opened and let himself out.  The night was wonderfully clear, the constellations throbbing and glittering overhead:  the trees were black against the pale sky.

He made his way round to the stables, and had some sort of notion that he would try to get at his horse, until it occurred to him that some suddenly awakened servant or master would probably send a bullet whizzing at him.  So he abandoned that enterprise, and set off to walk as quickly as he could down the slopes of the mountain, with the stars still shining over his head, the air sweet with powerful scents, the leaves of the bushes hanging silently in the semi-darkness.

How long he walked he did not know:  he was not aware that when he reached the sleeping town a pale gray was lightening the eastern skies.  He went to the house of the postmaster and hurriedly aroused him.  Mr. Keith began to think that the ordinarily sedate Mr. Roscorla had gone mad.

“But I must have the letter,” he said.  “Come now, Keith, you can give it me back if you like.  Of course I know it is very wrong, but you’ll do it to oblige a friend.”

“My dear sir,” said the postmaster, who could not get time for explanation, “the mails were made up last night—­”

“Yes, yes, but you can open the English bag.”

“They were sent on board last night.”

“Then the packet is still in the harbor:  you might come down with me.”

“She sails at daybreak.”

“It is not daybreak yet,” said Mr. Roscorla, looking up.

Then he saw how the gray dawn had come over the skies, banishing the stars, and he became aware of the wan light shining around him.  With the new day his life was altered; he would no more be as he had been; the chief aim and purpose of his existence had been changed.

Walking heedlessly back, he came to a point from which he had a distant view of the harbor and the sea beyond.  Far away out on the dull gray plain was a steamer slowly making her way toward the east.  Was that the packet bound for England, carrying to Wenna Rosewarne the message that she was free?