teps
with an air of humiliation, as if half ashamed of having given way to
such excitement. From his hiding-place the pirate saw him pass, and
watched him out of sight. Then, clambering quickly out of the stagnant
pool, he pushed deeper and deeper into the recesses of the morass,
regardless of every danger, except that of falling into the madman's
hands.

CHAPTER NINE.

Who shall tell, or who shall understand, the thoughts of Richard Rosco,
the ex-pirate, as he wandered, lost yet regardless, in that dismal
swamp?

The human spirit is essentially galvanic. It jumps like a grasshopper,
bounds like a kangaroo. The greatest of men can only restrain it in a
slight degree. The small men either have exasperating trouble with it,
or make no attempt to curb it at all. It is a rebellious spirit. The
best of books tells us that, "Greater is he that ruleth it, than he that
taketh a city."

Think of that, youngster, whoever you are, who readeth this. Think of
the conquerors of the world. Think of the "Great" Alexander, whose
might was so tremendous that he subjugated kingdoms and spent his life
in doing little else. Think of Napoleon "the Great," whose armies
ravaged Europe from the Atlantic to Asia: who even began--though he
failed to finish--the conquest of Africa; who made kings as you might
make pasteboard men, and filled the civilised world with fear, as well
as with blood and graves--all for his own glorification! Think of these
and other "great" men, and reflect that it is written, "He who rules his
own spirit" is _greater_ than they.

Yes, the human spirit is difficult to deal with, and uncomfortably
explosive. At least so Richard Rosco found it when, towards the close
of the day on which his enemy chased him into the dismal swamp, he sat
down on a gnarled root and began to reflect.

His spirit jumped almost out of him with contempt, when he thought that
for the first time in his life, he had fled in abject terror from the
face of man! He could not conceal that from himself, despite the excuse
suggested by pride--that he had half believed Zeppa to be an apparition.
What even if that were true? Had he not boastfully said more than once
that he would defy the foul fiend himself if he should attempt to thwart
him? Then his spirit bounded into a region of disappointed rage when he
thought of the lost opportunity of stabbing his enemy to the heart.
After that, unbidden, and in spite of him, it dropped i