It was easy for him--a
good swimmer--to reach a point far enough out in the channel for the
ebbing tides to carry him past that barrier of fog into the open and
obliterating ocean. And then, at least, it might seem as if he had
attempted to ESCAPE--indeed, if he cared, he might be able to keep
afloat until he was picked up by some passing vessel, bound to a distant
land! The self-delusion pleased him, and seemed to add the clinching
argument to his resolution. It was not suicide; it was escape--certainly
no more than escape--he intended! And this miserable sophism of
self-apology, the last flashes of expiring conscience, helped to light
up his pale, determined face with satisfaction. He began coolly to
divest himself of his coat.
What was that?--the sound of some dislodged stones splashing in one
of the pools further up! He glanced hurriedly round the wall of the
bastion. A figure crouching against the side of the ditch, as if
concealing itself from observation on the glacis above, was slowly
approaching the sea. Suddenly, when within a hundred yards of Hurlstone,
it turned, crossed the ditch, rapidly mounted its crumbling sides,
and disappeared over the crest.
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