beneath his feet, and he felt himself violently precipitated toward
the gurgling and oozing tide below. He threw out his arms desperately,
caught at a strong girder, drew himself up with the energy of
desperation, and staggered to his feet again, safe--and sane. For with
this terrible automatic struggle to avoid that death he was courting
came a flash of reason. If he had resolutely thrown himself from the
pier head as he intended, would he have undergone a hopeless revulsion
like this? Was he sure that this might not be, after all, the terrible
penalty of self-destruction--this inevitable fierce protest of mind and
body when TOO LATE? He was momentarily touched with a sense of gratitude
at his escape, but his reason told him it was not from his ACCIDENT, but
from his intention.

He was trying carefully to retrace his steps, but as he did so he saw
the figure of a man dimly lurching toward him out of the darkness of the
wharf and the crossed yards of the ship. A gleam of hope came over him,
for the emotion of the last few minutes had rudely displaced his pride
and self-love. He would appeal to this stranger, whoever he was; there
was more chance that in this rude locality he would be a belated sailor
or some humbler wayfarer, and the darkness and solitude made him feel
less ashamed. By the last flickering street lamp he could see that he
was a man about his own size, with something of the rolling gait of a
sailor, which was increased by the weight of a traveling portmanteau
he was swinging in his hand. As he approached he evidently detected
Randolph's waiting figure, slackened his speed slightly, and changed his
portmanteau from his right hand to his left as a precaution for defense.

Randolph felt the blood flush his cheek at this significant proof of
his disreputable appearance, but determined to accost him. He scarcely
recognized the sound of his own voice now first breaking the silence for