the silent road, in a gush of joyfulness, at the rate of some six miles an hour; I know not if ever such delicious thoughts of Emily’s attachment, and those gorgeous mysteries in India, of adventure, enterprise, escape, had heretofore caused his heart to bound so lightsomely within him, like some elastic spring.  I know not if ever strong reliance upon Providential care, more earnest prayers, praises, intercessions (for poor Julian, too,) were offered on the altar of his soul.  Happy Charles!

So he went on and on—­long past Oxton, and Eyemouth, and Surbiton, and over the ferry, and through the sleeping turnpikes, and past the bridge, and along the broad high-road, until gray of morning’s dawn revealed the suburbs of Plymouth.

Of course he missed the mail by which he intended to have gone—­for Julian’s dread act delayed him.

Long before his journey’s end, his clothes were thoroughly dried, and violent exercise had shaken off all possible rheumatic consequence of that fearful plunge beneath the waters:  five-and-twenty miles in four hours and three-quarters, is a tolerable recipe for those who have tumbled into rivers.  We must recollect that he had gone as quick as he could, for fear of being late, now the coach had passed.  At a little country inn, he brushed, and washed, and made toilet as well as he was able, took a glass of good Cognac, both hot and strong; and felt more of a man than ever.

Then, having loitered awhile, and well-remembered Emily in his prayers, at about eight in the morning he presented himself among his luggage at the Europe in gentlemanly trim, and soon got all on board the pilot boat, to meet the Indiaman just outside the breakwater.  We may safely leave him there, happy, hopeful Charles!  Sanguine for the future, exulting in the present, and thankful for the past:  already has he poured out all his joys before that Friend who loves her too, and invoked His blessing on a scheme so well designed, so providentially accomplished.

I had almost forgotten Julian:  wretched, hardened man, and how fared he?  The moment he had flung his brother into that dark stream, and the waters closed above him greedily that he was gone—­gone for ever, he first threw in stones to make a noise like life upon the stream, but that cheatery was only for an instant:  he was alone—­a murderer, alone! the horrors of silence, solitude, and guilt, seized upon him like three furies:  so his quick retreating walk became a running; and the running soon was wild and swift for fear; and ever as he ran, that piercing scream came upon the wind behind, and hooted him:  his head swam, his eyes saw terrible sights, his ears heard terrible sounds—­and he scoured into quiet, sleeping Burleigh like a madman.  However, by some strange good luck, not even did the slumbering watchman see him:  so he got in-doors as usual with the latch-key (it was not the first time he had been out at night), crept up quietly, and hid himself in his own chamber.