compartment between Whitchurch and Salisbury.

But Hogarth spent that night in meditating the pros and cons as to
O'Hara's escaping; and, in a moment of destiny, said at last: "If he
is undeservedly doomed--" and swooned to sleep.

The very next day was foggy....

On the march out O'Hara said: "Here is something like a fog. On the
Carinthian Alps, where you have dense woolly fogs, there is a race
of goats, which--"

"Would you like to escape?" whispered Hogarth.

"_Who?_"

"You".

"Hogarth--! My God--!"

A trembling seized the priest's leathery left cheek, he at that
instant seeing a vision of the world--Andalusian wines, hued ices,
the opera-house, and great greyhounds of the sea, and a snuff which
his gross nose loved at Gorey.

"Hogarth, you are not mocking me?" chattered the priest's jaws,
hurrying like a jarred spring.

"I am quite serious. You will have to run for it though".