The next day it did find them out. The St. Penfer _News_, published on Thursday, which was market-day, contained the following item: "On Monday night the daughter of John Penelles, fisher, ran off with Mr. Roland Tresham. The guilty pair went direct to London. Great sympathy is felt for the girl's father, who is a thoroughly upright man and a Wesleyan local preacher of the St. Penfer circuit." One of the brethren thought it his duty to show this paragraph to John. And the "old man" in John gained the mastery, and with a great oath he swore the words were a lie. Then, being sneeringly contradicted, he felled "the man of duty" prone upon the shingle. Then he went home and thoroughly terrified Joan. The repressed animal passion of a lifetime raged in him like a wild beast. He used words which horrified his wife, he kicked chairs and tables out of his way like a man drunk with strong liquor. He said he would go to St. Merryn's and get his money, and follow Roland and Denas to the end of the world; and if they were not married, they should marry or die--both of them. He walked his cottage floor the night through, and all the powers of darkness tortured and tempted him. For the first time in all their wedded life Joan dared not approach her husband. He was like a giant in the power of his enemies, and his struggles were terrible. But she knew well that he must fight and conquer alone. Hour after hour his ceaseless tramp, tramp, tramp went on; and she could hear him breathing inwardly like one who has business of life and death in hand. Toward dawn she lost hold of herself and fell asleep. When she awoke it was broad daylight, and all was still in the miserable house. Softly she opened the door and looked into the living-room. John was on his knees; she heard his voice--a far-off, awful voice--the voice of the soul and not of the body. So she went back, and with bowed head sat down on the edge of her bed and waited. Very cold was the winter morning, but she feared to make a movement. She knew it was long past the breakfast hour; she heard footsteps passing, the shouts of the fishers, the cries of the sea-birds; she believed it to be at least ten o'clock. But she sat breathlessly still. John was wrestling as Jacob wrestled; a movement, a whisper might delay the victory or the blessing. She almost held her breath as the muttered pleading grew more and more rapid, more and more urgent. Then there was a dead silence, a pause, a long deep sigh, a slow movement--and John opened the door and said softly, "Joan." There was the light of victory on his face; the cold strong light of a lifted sword. Then he sat down by her side; but what he told her and how she comforted him belong to those sacred, secret things which it is a sacrilege against love to speak of.