The Ashburns had not, it seemed, destroyed quite everything that made his life worth enduring--the life that so often and so wantonly he had exposed.
His son lived, and in London he should have news of him.

To London then must he get himself with all dispatch, and he swore to take no rest until he reached it.

And with that firm resolve to urge him, he ploughed his horse's flanks, and sped on through the night.

The rain beat in his face, yet he scarce remarked it, as again more by instinct than by reason--he buried his face to the eyes in the folds of his cloak.
Later the rain ceased, and clearer grew the line of light betwixt the hedgerows, by which his horse had steered its desperate career.

Fitfully a crescent moon peered out from among the wind-driven clouds.