When Ralph walked through the streets of Lancaster that cold midnight,
it was with no certainty as to his destination. It was to be anywhere,
anywhere in this race for life. Any haven that promised solitude was
to be his city of refuge.

The streets were quiet now, and even the roystering tipplers had gone
off to their homes. For Ralph there was no home--only this wild hunt
from place to place, with no safety and rest.

His heavy tread and the echo of his footfall were at length all that
broke the stillness of the streets.

He walked southwards, and when he reached the turnpike he stood for a
moment and turned his eyes towards the north. The fires that had been
kindled were smouldering away, but even yet a red gleam lay across the
square towers of the castle on the hill.

The old town was now asleep. Thousands of souls lay slumbering there.

Ralph thought of those who slept in a home he knew, far, far north of
this town and those towers. What was his crime that he was banished
from them--perhaps forever? What was his crime before God or man? His
mother, his brother, Rotha--

Ralph struck his breast and turned about. No, it would not bear to be
thought about. _That_ dream, at least, was gone. Rotha was happy in
his brother's love, and as for himself--as for him--it was his
destiny, and he must bear it!

Yet what was life worth now that he should struggle like this to