He was young and sick of heart, but his gentle mind
abhorred from considering his father's baseness. He thought only of
home and Sophia.
In a minute or two he began to run; for the night air searched his
sodden clothes and chilled him. The sky was starless, too, but he
saw the dull gleam of the canal, and made for it. Then he followed
the towpath southward for half a mile, and came to a bridge, and
crossing it found himself upon a firm high-road leading (as it
seemed) straight towards the west, for it certainly diverged from the
canal at something like a right angle. Unfortunately, Tristram could
not see in the gloom that the canal here took a sharp bend inland,
and in consequence he tramped on with his face set almost due south,
nothing doubting of his direction, but hoping, as each hour passed,
that the next would bring him within sound of the surf. The road ran
straight for mile after mile. Now and again he passed a small
cabaret brightly lit and merry with a noise of talk and laughter
that warmed his heart for a moment. In the stretches of darkness
between he met one or two wayfarers, who wished him "Good night" in
gruff voices and passed on. Not understanding what they said, he
made no reply, but pushed forward briskly, breaking into a run
whenever the cold began to creep upon him.
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