When I came to the place beneath the point where we had wrestled, I looked for a sign of Wilfred's body, but there was nothing to be seen, nor was there any marks on the sand, not even a footmark was visible. This was not altogether strange, for the tide would have washed away any such marks, and yet I wondered at none being visible when such a terrible tragedy had taken place. Near here was a cave, and, scarcely knowing what I was doing, I entered it. I spoke, but was frightened by the echo of my own voice. I dared not stay there long. Every sound was magnified so, and as the waves broke upon the shore their echo thundered around the walls of my grim resting-place, until it seemed filled with thousands of dark spirits of the dead. I went out again into the night, and wandered on until I came to the witches' cave. I seemed drawn, as if by a charm, and for a minute I had a strong desire to go where I had gone long years before, when Deborah Teague tried to make me promise ever to be her friend; but fancying I heard sounds within the dark confines of the cavern, I hurried away filled with superstitious fears. Then a new feeling possessed me. I must get away from England and never return. There was no hope; no peace for me here. Wilfred was dead--destroyed by my hand, and Ruth loathed me. I would go away on the wild seas again, and perhaps, although I could never know happiness, I might find forgetfulness. Here I should be ever haunted by fears; here, too, I was in danger of the law, once away I should be safe. The thought brought relief, it gave me something to do. It was an escape valve for my feelings, and without waiting a second I started on the road to Falmouth. A few days later I was sailing down the Bay of Biscay, bound for Barcelona, where I hoped I might find Salambo, who had been captain of the pirate ship. [1] "Croust" is a corruption of the word "carouse." This designates a meal which harvesters and haymakers have between ordinary meals on account of specially hard work.--EDITOR. CHAPTER XXV THE VOICE OF A FRIEND The journey to Barcelona was uneventful, at any rate for me. During the whole time I lived in a kind of hideous dream. I was ever thinking of what I had seen and done during the little time I had been in England, but nothing was real save a horrible weight that oppressed me. I know that the captain sought to be friendly, while some of the passengers seemed to be interested in the sad, silent man who ever sought to be alone, but I paid little heed to their overtures. How could I when two ghastly passions, hatred and remorse, possessed me?