That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. "So that was it? And what the devil are you doing here, moping alone on the beach? Why aren't you with her in this hour of bitterness?" "What can I do?" "You can go to her and take her in your arms. She felt herself getting into a corner. But still she knew they were not right, and at times they became a horrible obsession as of something waiting for her round the corner. And, if Rachel had not carried a candle, the room would have been plunged in total darkness. Alban's to-night. He could not permit her to remain in that position. "It is with no small concern," writes an anonymous historian of Newgate, "that I am obliged to observe that the women in every ward of this prison are exceedingly worse than the worst of the men not only in respect to their mode of living, but more especially as to their conversation, which, to their great shame, is as profane and wicked as hell itself can possibly be.
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