The exile's heart thoroughly knew its own bitterness, as he heard once more the true, kindly tones. But it could not be. He would accompany them until they reached the high road, when he would make some excuse, and hasten to fly from the temptation to which he dared not yield. So he consented. The waves were breaking with a hoarse, sullen boom, as though disappointed of their prey, as the party returned along the beach in the pitchy darkness of the small hours of the winter's morning, and the light of the lanterns shone with a weird gleam upon the receding surf. Olive had been placed in an improvised litter of shawls and wraps slung on to two stout poles which they had brought with them, and was borne by two sturdy fishermen. Exhaustion and the terrors she had gone through had reduced her to a state of semi-unconsciousness, in which her mind was hardly sensible of what went on around her. Her father, still terribly anxious, walked at her side, and the stranger, who evinced no disposition to talk, had taken up his position on the other side--an arrangement not exactly to Turner's taste, who, however, took comfort from the thought that the man was fifty or sixty at least, even though he was well-made and free of step still, and undeniably a gentleman. At last a stray light betokened the vicinity of Wandsborough. "Now, let me see," mused the stranger. "This is the Battisford road, I believe. Do not think me very rude, Mr--Ingelow--but on turning things over I find I must unavoidably be back in London to-day. I should have gone up by the night train but for this unfortunate--this fortunate, rather should I call it--walk of mine. On some future occasion, perhaps, I may have the great pleasure of renewing our acquaintance." "My dear sir, we really cannot allow such a thing," cried the rector, aghast. "You will surely reconsider this. At any rate, put off your flight for a few hours. It is a long way to Battisford, and we are just home now. You shall be driven over later if you wish it. Now do oblige me--" All who witnessed it thought they had never seen such a curious look before, as that which came into the other's face. A sharp struggle was going on within him. "Go back with them--tell them who you are," said the lonely heart of the exile. "You will have friends--a way will be found out of your difficulties somehow, and then what love and peace and happiness will be yours!" "You--a beggar, penniless, ruined, destitute?" whispered Pride. "You, whose memory is under a cloud, and who are without the barest means of existence--will you go back to accept the charity of those with whom you moved as equal? Only reveal your identity and see how their grateful overtures will cool!"