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.