So Devereux glided on like a ghost, through the noiseless thicket, and scarcely knowing or caring where he went, emerged upon the broad open plateau, and skirting the Fifteen Acres, came, at last, to a halt upon the high ground overlooking the river—­which ran, partly in long trains of silver sparkles, and partly in deep shadow beneath him.  Here he stopped; and looked towards the village where he had passed many a pleasant hour—­with a profound and remorseful foreboding that there were no more such pleasant hours for him; and his eye wandered among the scattered lights that still twinkled from the distant windows; and he fancied he knew, among them all, that which gleamed pale and dim through the distant elms—­the star of his destiny; and he looked at it across the water—­a greater gulf severed them—­so near, and yet a star in distance—­with a strange mixture of sadness and defiance, tenderness and fury.

CHAPTER LXII.

OF A SOLEMN RESOLUTION WHICH CAPTAIN DEVEREUX REGISTERED AMONG HIS HOUSEHOLD GODS, WITH A LIBATION.

When Devereux entered his drawing-room, and lighted his candles, he was in a black and bitter mood.  He stood at the window for a while, and drummed on the pane, looking in the direction of the barrack, where all the fun was going on, but thinking, in a chaotic way, of things very different, and all toned with that strange sense of self-reproach and foreboding which, of late, had grown habitual with him—­and not without just cause.

’This shall be the last.  ’Twas dreadful, seeing that poor Nan; and I want it—­I can swear, I really and honestly want it—­only one glass to stay my heart.  Everyone may drink in moderation—­especially if he’s heart-sick, and has no other comfort—­one glass and no more—­curse it.’

So one glass of brandy—­I’m sorry to say, unmixed with water—­the handsome misanthropist sipped and sipped, to the last drop; and then sat down before his fire, and struck, and poked, and stabbed at it in a bitter, personal sort of way, until here and there some blazes leaped up, and gave his eyes a dreamy sort of occupation; and he sat back, with his hands in his pockets, and his feet on the fender, gazing among the Plutonic peaks and caverns between the bars.

’I’ve had my allowance for to-night; to-morrow night, none at all.  ’Tis an accursed habit:  and I’ll not allow it to creep upon me.  No, I’ve never fought it fairly, as I mean to do now—­’tis quite easy, if one has but the will to do it.’

So he sat before his fire, chewing the cud of bitter fancy only; and he recollected he had not quite filled his glass, and up he got with a swagger, and says he—­

’We’ll drink fair, if you please—­one glass—­one only—­but that, hang it—­a bumper.’

So he made a rough calculation.

’We’ll say so much—­here or there, ’tis no great matter.  A thimble full won’t drown me.  Pshaw! that’s too much.  What am I to do with it?—­hang it.  Well, we can’t help it—­’tis the last.’