“Happily, Senor,” says I, in conclusion, “here is just the sum you generously offered to accept for your share, and we give it you with a free heart, Evans and I being willing to wait for what may be forthcoming.”

“Is it your wish both, that I take this?” says he, laying his hand on the money and looking from me to Dawson.

“Aye,” says he, “’tis but a tithe of what is left to us, and not an hundredth part of what we owe to you.”

“Very good,” says the Don.  “I will carry it to London to-morrow.”

“But surely, Senor,” says I, “you will not quit us so soon.”

Don Sanchez rolls his cigarro in his lips, looking me straight in the face and somewhat sternly, and asks me quietly if I have ever found him lacking in loyalty and friendship.

“In truth, never, Senor.”

“Then why should you imagine I mean to quit you now when you have more need of a friend in this house” (with a sideward glance as towards Moll’s chamber) “than ever you before had?” Then, turning towards Jack, he says, “What are you going to do, Captain Evans?”

Dawson pauses, as if to snatch one last moment for consideration, and then, nodding at me, “You’ll not leave my—­Moll, Kit?” says he, with no attempt to disguise names.

“Why should I leave her; are we not as brothers, you and I?”

“Aye, I’d trust you with my life,” answers he, “and more than that, with my—­Moll!  If you were her uncle, she couldn’t love you more, Kit.  And you will stand by her, too, Senor?”

The Don bowed his head.

“Then when you leave, to-morrow, I’ll go with you to London,” says Jack.

“I shall return the next day,” says Don Sanchez, with significance.

“And I shall not, God help me!” says Jack, bitterly.

“Give me your hand,” says the Don; but I could speak never a word, and sat staring at Jack, in a maze.

“We’ll say nought of this to her,” continues Jack; “there must be no farewells, I could never endure that.  But it shall seem that I have gone with you for company, and have fallen in with old comrades who would keep me for a carousing.”

“But without friends—­alone—­what shall you do there in London?” says I, heart-stricken at the thought of his desolation.  The Don answers for Jack.

“Make the best of his lot with a stout heart, like any other brave man,” says he.  “There are natural hardships which every man must bear in his time, and this is one of them.”  Then lowering his voice, he adds, “Unless you would have her die an old maid, she and her father must part sooner or later.”

“Why, that’s true, and yet, Master,” says Jack, “I would have you know that I’m not so brave but I would see her now and then.”

“That may be ordered readily enough,” says the Don.

“Then do you tell her, Senor, I have but gone a-junketing, and she may look to see me again when my frolic’s over.”