* * * * *

I shall not be able to go on with Billy Devine's story for some time. We
have had an ugly business here, and it is now two months since I wrote a
line. It was only by making special inquiry that I found how time had
gone, for I have been living in a nightmare.

One fine morning I put on smart flannels and went for a scull on the
river. If ever you drink too much it is best to force yourself into
violent exercise at any cost, and for that reason I determined to row
until the effects of a very bad night had worn off. Usually I keep
myself clear of after consequences, but I had been with a keen set, and
we did not go to bed at all. When we contrived to separate at 7 a.m.,
some of my companions began on a fresh day's drinking, but I chose to
take a rest.

It was a lovely morning, and I felt like a bad sort of criminal amid the
clear, splendid beauty. When the light wind struck across the surface of
the river it seemed as if the water were pelted with falling jewels; the
osiers bowed and sighed as the breeze ran along their tops; and, here
and there, a spirt of shaken dewdrops described a flashing arc, and fell
poppling into the stream. Ah! how solemnly glad and pure and radiant the
great trees looked! The larks had gone wild with the joy of living, and
their delicious rivalry, their ceaseless gurgle of liquid melody, seemed
somehow to match the multitudinous glitter of the mighty clouds of
foliage. For a man with pure palate and healthy eye the sights and
sounds would have made a heaven; but my mouth was like a furnace, and
my eye was fevered. Nevertheless, I managed to enjoy the sweet panorama
more and more as my muscles grew tense, and I pulled on doggedly for