The message of the sea! Softly low, like the love note of a mother, it whispered to the alien brooding spirit, whispered of spindrift whipped to showers of briny spray in the sweep of unleashed winds, whispered of illimitable, splendid unrest. Out beyond the land-locked haven of the ships the great waves rolled league on league, in unfettered freedom, to annoint the feet of a far world. Low in the west, the sun crimsoned the distant sky line and tinged with rose the gray of wan, far-flung billows. The balm of a soft breeze, instinct with the latent fragrance of the passing year, breathed over the tossing waters of the harbor, lately rent by a strong wind, and lulled them to cradled peace. High overhead a flock of gulls wheeled with harsh cries, winging straight out to the sky line of gray and rose that hemmed the sweep of the restless sea. Mechanically the man on the wharf rose to his feet, standing with hands in his coat pockets, watching the soaring gulls. Like the wind they flew, straight out to the rose and gray and beyond, white specks swallowed in the mists of distance. Even yet the eyes of the man's mind followed them, atoms that swooped triumphantly into the teeth of stinging winds; atoms fiercely clamorous, mad with the mere ecstasy of life, with wild, aimless wandering, the zest of battle with wind and wave. O'Byrn drew a long, shuddering breath. It had gripped him again, this compelling ghost that could never be laid for long. In his eyes blazed the old, restless light, the wild will-o'-the-wisp which lures the born wanderer the wide world over in erratic flight till set o' sun. His tired brain, his sick heart, alike craved the old nepenthe of unrest. Reborn of the whispered message of wide-flung tides, the sight of the screaming gulls, the old longing of his nature sought vent in a strident inward cry. Once more, bringing the sharp, exquisite pain he feared, yet loved, the lash came hurtling out of the unknown, driving him on to new scenes that all too soon were old, to dream houses built on crumbling sands. The strange light of his eyes grew brighter, the wine of quickened wanderlust mounted in deepening glow upward to heart and brain. O'Byrn became conscious of a small, square object in his pocket. Absently he drew forth a yellow envelope. Tearing it open he read the message. With eyes darkened with concentration he read it again. A little later he walked into a telegraph office. CHAPTER XXIV THE LONG ROAD Night had fallen, the lights of the city flared under a calm clear sky that was studded with stars. A soft wind from the south had worked its will, the night was warmer than had been the day. The air was fragrant with the mystic scent of Indian summer, of green things in fields and forests, the land over, that were changing to rose and gold ere the pitiful withering to shriveled gray.