The man whom ancient friendship had brought that way stopped short in his pacing to gaze upon the figure standing in the light of the high window.  For what could such an one want money?  Courtier, no more forever; patron of letters, friend of wise men, no more forever; soldier and sea-king, comrade and leader of brave men never, never again,—­what wanted he so much, what other was his imperative need than this old, quiet house sunk in the shadows of its age-old trees, grave with a certain solemnity, touched upon with tragedy, attuned to a sorrowful patience?  For a moment the room and the man who made its core were blurred to Arden’s vision.  He walked to the window and stood there, twirling his mustachios, finally humming to himself the lines of a song.

“That is Sidney’s,” said Ferne, quietly.  “I hear that he does the Queen noble service....  Well, even in the old times he was ever a length before me!”

“Why do you need money?” demanded the visitor.  “What more retired—­what better house than this?”

The man who leaned against the chimney-piece turned to gaze at his visitor with that which had not before showed in mien or words.  It was wonder, slight and mournful, yet wonder.  “Of course you also would think that,” he said at last.  “Even Robin thinks that the stained blade should rust in its scabbard,—­that here I should await my time, training the rose-bushes in my garden, listening to the sere leaves fall, singing of other men’s harvests.”

The boy cried out:  “I don’t, I don’t!  You’ve promised to take me with you!” and flung himself down upon the pavement, with his head beside his master’s knee.

“I have bought me a ship,” said Ferne, “together with a crew of beggared mariners and cast soldiers.  I think they be all villains and desperate folk, or they would not sail with me.  Some that seemed honest have fallen away since they knew the name of their Captain....  We must begone, Robin!  If we would not sail the ship ourselves we must begone—­we must begone.”

“Begone where?” demanded Arden, and wheeled from the window.

“To fight the Spaniard,” said Ferne.  “The Queen hath been my very good mistress.  John Nevil and Sidney have procured me leave to go—­if it so be that I go quietly.  I think that I will not return—­and England will forget me, but Spain may remember....  For the rest, I go to search for Robert Baldry; to seek if not to find my enemy, the foe that I held in contempt, whom in my heart I despised because he was not poet and courtier, as I was, nor knight and gentleman, as I was, nor very wise, as I was, and because all his vision was clouded and gross, while I—­I might see the very flower o’ the sun....  Well, he was a brave man.”

“He is dead,” whispered Arden.  “Surely he is dead.”

“Maybe,” answered the other.  “But I nor no man else saw him die.  And we know that these Spanish tombs do sometimes open and give up the dead.  I’ll throw for size-ace.”