To be solitary is to go mad. Society is the preserver and promoter of intelligence and all the virtues; alas! of many of the vices as well. Men--ay, and women, too--have tried to dispense with humanity, seeking something higher. They have withdrawn themselves from the world a while, and, far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, in the vast expanse of some limitless desert, or upon some rough-ribbed Sinai's rocky crest, in seclusion from the sound of tongues and the war of men, have sought to draw near to God. And they have not found Him. Rather Satan has entered into them and they have become victims of diabolic obsession. For God is in the people. The human touch conveys the divine. The attrition of men is the outward force that makes character. Life is to fit in and be a part of daily duty among common men. So other and higher life is won. Barry was a man, alone,--a madman now. Revere had added the finishing touch by breaking in upon the man's solitude. The admiral was becoming only a daily duty to the sailor. Habit had almost encysted his affection for his superior. As Emily had approached womanhood she had drawn away from Barry. He worshipped her from a greater and greater distance, constantly increasing. And now that she loved one of her own age and her own class, the old man felt that she had almost vanished from his sight. The last link that held him in touch with humanity was breaking. Should he not strike while there was time? Love was not for him, but hate is everybody's. He should claim his portion. The rotting ship was his mountain, his desert, his hermitage. Its bare, gaunt timbers were his horizon. He looked, he listened, he read again the letters, he agonized, he broke, and was lost. And when the devil came to him, under the guise of good to be accomplished, he found a place ready, swept and garnished for him. Oh, poor, blind, possessed old sailor! CHAPTER XVI A CLOUD ON THE HORIZON A quickened conscience is not the best of soporifics, and Revere was a long time in getting to sleep. The miserable situation into which he had plunged himself, however, was alleviated by the consciousness, of which nothing could deprive him, that Emily loved him. And he persuaded himself that when a girl, such as he fancied her, loved, she loved forever. Which was true. There was much comfort for him in the idea. He could not, however, take the joy that should have been his in the realization of this glorious fact until his affairs with Josephine had been adjusted. As for Emily, she, too, mingled her grief at the pre-engagement with joy in Richard's love, but with less confidence in its permanence; and, like his, her hours were sorely troubled.