ined to gestures only. There are degrees in crime, and Rufus Dawes,
the convicted felon, who had but escaped the gallows to toil for all his
life in irons, was a man of mark. He had been tried for the robbery and
murder of Lord Bellasis. The friendless vagabond's lame story of finding
on the Heath a dying man would not have availed him, but for the curious
fact sworn to by the landlord of the Spaniards' Inn, that the murdered
nobleman had shaken his head when asked if the prisoner was his
assassin. The vagabond was acquitted of the murder, but condemned to
death for the robbery, and London, who took some interest in the
trial, considered him fortunate when his sentence was commuted to
transportation for life.

It was customary on board these floating prisons to keep each man's
crime a secret from his fellows, so that if he chose, and the caprice of
his gaolers allowed him, he could lead a new life in his adopted
home, without being taunted with his former misdeeds. But, like other
excellent devices, the expedient was only a nominal one, and few out of
the doomed hundred and eighty were ignorant of the offence which their
companions had committed. The more guilty boasted of their superiority
in vice; the petty criminals swore that their guilt was blacker than it
appeared. Moreover, a deed so bloodthirsty and a respite so unexpected,
had invested the name of Rufus Dawes with a grim distinction, which his
superior mental abilities, no less than his haughty temper and powerful
frame, combined to support. A young man of two-and-twenty owning to no
friends, and existing among them but by the fact of his criminality,
he was respected and admired. The vilest of all the vile horde penned
between decks, if they laughed at his "fine airs" behind his back,
cringed and submitted when they met him face to face--for in a convict
ship the greatest villain is the greatest hero, and the only nobility
acknowledged by that hideous commonwealth is that Order of the Halter
which is conferred by the hand of the hangman.

The young man on the poop caught sight of the tall figure leaning
against the bulwarks, and it gave him an excuse to break the monotony of
his employment.

"Here, you!" he called with an oath, "get out of the gangway!" Rufus
Dawes was not in the gangway--was, in fact, a good two feet from it, but
at the sound of Lieutenant Frere's voice he started, and went obediently
towards the hatchway.

"Touch your hat, you dog!" crie