ood news Crispin felt like to shout for joy.

But his reflection upon his present position, when at last he lay in the
schooner's cabin, brought him the bitter reverse of pleasure. He had set
out to bring Cynthia to his son; he had pledged his honour to accomplish
it. How was he fulfilling his trust? In his despondency, during a moment
when alone, he cursed the knave that had wounded him for his clumsiness
in not having taken a lower aim when he fired, and thus solved him this
ugly riddle of life for all time.

Vainly did he strive to console himself and endeavour to palliate the
wrong he had done with the consideration that he was the man Cynthia
loved, and not his son; that his son was nothing to her, and that she
would never have accompanied him had she dreamt that he wooed her for
another.

No. The deed was foul, and rendered fouler still by virtue of those
other wrongs in whose extenuation it had been undertaken. For a moment
he grew almost a coward. He was on the point of bidding Master Jackson
avoid Calais and make some other port along the coast. But in a moment
he had scorned the craven argument of flight, and determined that come
what might he would face his son, and lay the truth before him, leaving
him to judge how strong fate had been. As he lay feverish and fretful in
the vessel's cabin, he came well-nigh to hating Kenneth; he remembered
him only as a poor, mean creature, now a bigot, now a fop, now a
psalm-monger, now a roysterer, but ever a hypocrite, ever a coward,
and never such a man as he could have taken pride in presenting as his
offspring.

They had a fair wind, and towards evening Cynthia, who had been absent
from his side a little while, came to tell him that the coast of France
grew nigh.

His answer was a sigh, and when she chid him for it, he essayed a smile
that was yet more melancholy. For a second he was tempted to confide
in her; to tell her of the position in which he found himself and to
lighten his load by sharing it with her. But this he dared not do.
Cynthia must never know.

CHAPTER XXVII. THE AUBERGE DU SOLEIL

In a room of the first floor of the Auberge du Soleil, at Calais, the
host inquired of Crispin if he were milord Galliard. At that question
Crispin caught his breath in apprehension, and felt himself turn pale.
What it portended, he guessed; and it stifled the hope that had been
rising in him since his arrival, and because he had not found his
son awaiting h