told Mr Wardlaw, who said, 'God pity his slaves, then.'

And now I come to the incident which made the rest of the
voyage pass all too soon for me, and foreshadowed the strange
events which were to come. It was the day after we crossed the
Line, and the first-class passengers were having deck sports. A
tug-of-war had been arranged between the three classes, and a
half-dozen of the heaviest fellows in the steerage, myself
included, were invited to join. It was a blazing hot afternoon,
but on the saloon deck there were awnings and a cool wind
blowing from the bows. The first-class beat the second easily, and
after a tremendous struggle beat the steerage also. Then they
regaled us with iced-drinks and cigars to celebrate the victory.

I was standing at the edge of the crowd of spectators, when
my eye caught a figure which seemed to have little interest in
our games. A large man in clerical clothes was sitting on a
deck-chair reading a book. There was nothing novel about the
stranger, and I cannot explain the impulse which made me
wish to see his face. I moved a few steps up the deck, and then
I saw that his skin was black. I went a little farther, and
suddenly he raised his eyes from his book and looked round.
It was the face of the man who had terrified me years ago on
the Kirkcaple shore.

I spent the rest of the day in a brown study. It was clear to
me that some destiny had prearranged this meeting. Here was
this man travelling prosperously as a first-class passenger with
all the appurtenances of respectability. I alone had seen him
invoking strange gods in the moonlight, I alone knew of the