CHAPTER XI.
July 19th.
_Campsie, N.B._ Hither have I fled from my buccaneering relations.

I am seeking shelter in a manse in the midst of a Scotch moor, and the village, half a mile away, is itself five miles from a railway station.
Here I can defy Aunt Jessica.
After my conversation with Pasquale, I passed a restless night.

My slumbers were haunted by dreams of pirate yachts flying the jolly Roger, on which the skull and crossbones melted grotesquely into a wedding-ring and a true lovers' knot.

I awoke to the conviction that so long as the vessel remained on English waters I could find no security in London.

I resolved on flight.