Yet envy of the rich began to fill his soul. The world was badly divided. Why had he to tread the streets day after day with muddy boots to his office, and back to his dingy home after long hours of toil and drudgery at the desk?

Oh for comfort! Oh for riches!

The girl that was to be his was more beautiful than many who lolled in cushioned carriages, with liveried servants to attend their beck and call.

So his dream went on, and dreams are but half-waking thoughts.

But it changes now!

He sees Mary his sweetheart, wan and pale, with tears in her eyes for him whose voice she may never hear again.

For the tempter has come with gold and with golden promises.

And he has fallen!

Other men have fallen before. Why not he when so much was to be gained?

So much of--nay, not of glory, but of gold. What is it that gold cannot do?

A conscience? Yes, he had possessed one once. But this tempter had laughed heartily when he talked of so old-fashioned a possession. It was all a matter of business.

Behold those wealthy men who glide past in their beautiful landaus. Did they have consciences? If they did, then, instead of a town and country house, their home would soon be the garret vile in some back slum in London.

Again the dream changes. To the fearful and awful now. For, stretched out before him is Mary, wan and worn--Mary, DEAD!

He awakes with a shriek, and sits up with his back against the black rock.

His hand touches something cold. It is a skull, and he shudders as he thrusts it away.

But is he awake? He lifts his fettered hands and rubs his eyes.

He gazes in terror at someone that is sitting, just as he is, with his back against the wall--and asleep.

The rough dress is all disarranged, and the brown hands are covered with blood. It is an awful vision.

He shuts his eyes a moment, but when he opens them again the man is still there! The terror!

The morning sun is glimmering in and falling directly on the awful sleeping face.

He sits bolt upright now and leans forward.

"Kaloomah!" he cries. "Kaloomah!"

And his own voice seems to belong to some spirit behind those prison walls.

But the terror awakes.

And the eyes of the two men meet.

"Don Pedro! You here?"

"Kaloomah. I am."

CHAPTER XXIX--EASTWARD HO! FOR MERRIE ENGLAND

Captain Roland St. Clair, as he was called by his men, was busy along with d.i.c.k and Bill in superintending the sending-off of all heavy baggage down-stream, when a man came up and saluted him.

"Well, Harris?"

"The prisoner Peter desires to speak with you, sir, in the presence of two witnesses. He wished me to request you to bring paper, pen, and ink. It is his desire that you should take his deposition."

"Deposition, Harris? But the man is not dying."

"Well, perhaps not, sir. I only tell you what he says."

"I will be in his cell in less than twenty minutes, Harris."

"d.i.c.k," said Roland, at the appointed time, "there is some mystery here.

Come with me, and you also, Bill."

"What I have to say must be said briefly and quickly," said Peter, sitting up. "I will not give myself the pain," he added, "to think very much about the past. It is all too dark and horrible. But I make this confession, unasked for and being still in possession of all my faculties and reasoning power."

He spoke very slowly, and d.i.c.k wrote down the confession as he made it.

"I am guilty, gentlemen. Dare I say 'with extenuating circ.u.mstances'?

That, however, will be for you to consider. As the matter stands I do not beg for my life, but rather that you should deal with me as I deserve to be treated.

"Death, believe me, gentlemen, is in my case preferable to life. But listen and judge for yourselves, and if parts of my story need confirmation, behold yonder is Kaloomah, and he it was whom I hired to carry your adopted sister away, where in all human probability she could never more be heard of again. Have you got all that down?"

"I have," said d.i.c.k.

"But," said Roland, "what reason had you to take so terrible a revenge on those who never harmed you, if revenge indeed it was?"

"It was not revenge. What I did, I did for greed of gold. Listen.

"I was happy in England, and had I only been content, I might now have been married and in comfort, but I fell, and am now the heart-broken villain you see before you.

"You know the will your uncle made, Mr. St. Clair?"

"I have only heard of it."

"It was I who copied it for my master, the wretched solicitor.

"I stole that copy and re-copied it, and sold it to the only man whom it could benefit, and that was your Uncle John."

"My Uncle John? He who sent you out to my poor, dear father?"