Arnaux 
“naught” of his sea record was gone. Not two 
hundred and ten, but twenty-one miles it now 
read. Oh, shameful pillage! A dark stain 
appeared on his bosom, but Arnaux kept on. 
Home, home, homeward bound. ‘The danger 
was past in an instant. Home, homeward he 
steered straight as before, but the wonderful 
speed was diminished ; not a mile a minute now ; 
and the wind made undue sounds in his tat- 
tered pinions. ‘The stain in his breast told of 
broken force; but on, straight on, he flew. 
Home, home was in sight, and the pain in his 
breast was forgotten. ‘The tall towers of the 
city were in clear view of his far-seeing eye as 
he skimmed by the high cliffs of Jersey. On, 
on—the pinion might flag, the eye might 
darken, but the home-love was stronger and 
stronger. 
Under the tall Palisades, to be screened 
from the wind, he passed, over the sparkling 
water, over the trees, under the Peregrines’ 
eyrie, under the pirates’ castle where the great 
grim Peregrines sat; peering like black-masked 
highwaymen they marked the. on-coming Pig- 
eon. Arnaux knew them of old. Many a 
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