“What do I know of these, with all my knowing?  Not even a twentieth part of those medusae, or one in each thousand of those sparks among the foam.  Perhaps I need not know.  And yet why was the thirst awakened in me, save to be satisfied at last?  Perhaps to become more intense, with every fresh delicious draught of knowledge....  Death, beautiful, wise, kind death; when will you come and tell me what I want to know?  I courted you once and many a time, brave old Death, only to give rest to the weary.  That was a coward’s wish, and so you would not come.  I ran you close in Afghanistan, old Death, and at Sobraon too, I was not far behind you; and I thought I had you safe among that jungle grass at Aliwal; but you slipped through my hand—­I was not worthy of you.  And now I will not hunt you any more, old Death:  do you bide your time, and I mine; though who knows if I may not meet you here?  Only when you come give me not rest, but work.  Give work to the idle, freedom to the chained, sight to the blind!—­Tell me a little about finer things than zoophytes—­perhaps about the zoophytes as well—­and you shall still be brave old Death, my good camp-comrade now for many a year.”

Was Major Campbell mad?  That depends upon the way in which the reader may choose to define the adjective.

Meanwhile Scoutbush had walked into Penalva Court—­where an affecting scene of reconciliation took place?

Not in the least.  Scoutbush kissed Lucia, shook hands with Elsley, hugged the children, and then settled himself in an arm-chair, and talked about the weather, exactly as if he had been running in and out of the house every week for the last three years, and so the matter was done; and for the first time a partie carree was assembled in the dining-room.

The evening passed off at first as uncomfortably as it could, where three out of the four were well-bred people.  Elsley was, of course, shy before Lord Scoutbush, and Scoutbush was equally shy before Elsley, though as civil as possible to him; for the little fellow stood in extreme awe of Elsley’s talents, and was afraid of opening his lips before a poet.  Lucia was nervous for both their sakes, as well she might be; and Valencia had to make all the talking, and succeeded capitally in drawing out both her brother and her brother-in-law, till both of them found the other, on the whole more like other people than he had expected.  The next morning’s breakfast, therefore, was easy and gracious enough:  and when it was over, and Lucia fled to household matters—­

“You smoke, Vavasour?” asked Scoutbush.

Vavasour did not smoke.

“Really?  I thought poets always smoked.  You will not forbid my having a cigar in your garden, nevertheless, I suppose!  Do walk round with me, too, and show me the place, unless you are going to be busy.”

Oh no; Elsley was at Lord Scoutbush’s service, of course, and had really nothing to do.  So out they went.