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Eastward! The dear old man of Waterloo was dead, and his voice was to be heard no more for ever by the son who loved him so well.
Was he sorry? He was deeply sorry; but beneath his sorrow there was a depth of gladness immeasurable. Roland was his own master; no one had the right to advise and direct him now. A son of freedom was now free, and felt the blood moving in his veins. His step was taken, and he was going to dispense with all vain babble which might defeat the carrying out of his object. Is he the first fool that has cast all to the winds for a fancy? Did not one poor boy, Hastings, slink into a dishonoured grave only yesterday? But from the ruin of no such quest as Roland's.