“Why not before to-day?”

“I have been busy,” said the other, simply.  “Long ago the Indians taught me a sure remedy for this fever.  There was need down yonder for the cure....  Moreover, pride and I have battled once again.  To-night, in the darkness, by God’s grace, I won....  It is good to see thy face, to hear thy voice, John Nevil.”

The tall tapers gave so great and clear a light that there was no shadow for either countenance.  In Nevil’s agitation had begun to gather, but his opposite showed as yet only a certain worn majesty of peace.  Neither man had moved; each stood erect, with the heavy wood like a judgment bar between them.  Perhaps some noise among the soldiers below, some memory that the other had entered the room as a prisoner, brought such a fancy to Nevil’s mind, for now he hastily left his position and crossed to the bench beneath the wide window.  The man from the grave of the South-American forest followed.  Sir John stretched out his hand and touched the heavy woollen robe that swept from bared throat to rudely sandalled feet.

“This?” he questioned.

The other faintly smiled.  “I found it many months agone in a village of the Chaymas.  I was nigh to nakedness, and it has served me well.  It is only a gown.  This”—­he touched the knotted girdle—­“but a piece of rope.”

“I have seen the boy, Robin-a-dale,” said Nevil.

The other inclined his head.  “Captain Powell told me as much an hour ago, and also that by some slip my poor knave slept not, as I had meant he should, but babbled of old things which have wellnigh turned his wits.  He must not stay in this land, but back to England to feel the snow in his face, to hear the cuckoo and the lark, to serve you or Arden or Philip Sidney.  What ancient news hath he given you?”

“You went overland to Panama.”

“Ay,—­a dreadful journey—­a most dreadful return ...  Don Luiz de Guardiola was not at Panama.  With a strong escort he had gone three days before to San Juan de Ulloa, whence he sailed for Spain.”

A long silence; then said Nevil:  “There is no passion in your face, and your voice is grave and sweet.  I thank God that he was gone, and that your soul has turned from vengeance.”

“Ay, my soul hath turned from vengeance,” echoed the other.  “It is now a long time that, save for Robin, I have dwelt alone with God His beauty and God His terror.  I have taught a savage people, and in teaching I have learned.”  He moved, and with his knee upon the window-seat, looked out upon the fading stars.  “But the blood,” he said,—­“the blood upon my hands!  I know not if one man who sailed with me upon the Sea Wraith be alive.  Certes, all are dead who went with me a fearful way to find that Spaniard who is safe in Spain.  Six men we reached again the seashore, but the ship was gone.  One by one, as we wandered, the four men died....  Then Robin and I went upward and onward to the mountains.”