There was a silence, followed by Sir John’s slow speech.  “When he returns send him at once under guard to my quarters—­I will make good the matter with Sir Francis.  Speak the man fair, good Powell, give him gentle treatment, but see to it that he escape you not....  Here are my men.  Good-night.”

Three hours later to Nevil, yet dressed, yet sitting deep in thought within his starlit chamber, came a messenger from the captain of the watch.  “The man whom Sir John Nevil wot of was below.  What disposition until the morning—­”

“Bring him to me here,” was the answer.  “Stay!—­there are candles upon the table.  Light one.”

The soldier, drawing from his pouch flint, steel, and tinder-box, obeyed, then saluted and withdrew.  There was a short silence, followed by the sound of feet upon the stone stairs and a knock at the door, and upon Nevil’s “Enter!” by the appearance of a sergeant and several soldiers—­in the midst of them a figure erect, composed, gowned, and cowled.

The one candle dimly lit the room.  “Will you stand aside, sir?” said Nevil to his captive.  “Now, sergeant—­”

The sergeant made a brief report.

“Await, you and your men, in the hall below,” ordered Nevil.  “You have not bound your prisoner?  That is well.  Now go, leaving him here alone.”

The heavy door closed to.  Upon the table stood two great gilt candelabra bearing many candles, a fragment of the spoil of Cartagena.  Nevil, taking from its socket the one lighted taper, began to apply the flame to its waxen fellows.  As the chamber grew more and more brilliant, the friar, standing with folded arms, made no motion to break the profound stillness, but with the lighting of the last candle he thrust far back the cowl that partly hid his countenance, then moved with an even step to the table, and raising with both hands the great candelabrum, held it aloft.  The radiance that flooded him, showing every line and lineament, was not more silvery white than the hair upon his head; but brows and lashes were as deeply brown as the somewhat sunken eyes, nor was the face an old man’s face.  It was lined, quiet, beautiful, with lips somewhat too sternly patient and eyes too sad, for all their kindly wisdom.  The friar’s gown could not disguise the form beneath; the friar’s sleeve, backfallen from the arm which held on high the branching lights, disclosed deep scars....  Down-streaming light, the hour, the stillness—­a soul unsteadfast would have shrunk as from an apparition.  Nevil stood his ground, the table between him and his guest of three years’ burial from English ken.  Both men were pale, but their gaze did not waver.  So earnestly did they regard each other, eyes looking into eyes, that without words much knowledge of inner things passed between them.  At last, “Greet you well, Mortimer Ferne,” came from one, and from the other, “Greet you well, John Nevil.”

The speaker lowered the candelabrum and set it upon the table.  “You might have spared the sergeant his pains.  To-day I should have sought you out.”