Robin-a-dale, seeing and comprehending, buried his head in his arms and with his fingers dug into the sand.  Now and then he looked up, but always there was the pallid slope of the beach, the intermittent break of the surf that was like the inflection of a voice low and far away, the stars and the groups of stars, strange, strange after those of home, the lightning from the western heavens, the duellist awaiting with lowered point the coming of that antagonist who had so fiercely lived, so fiercely died, so fiercely hated that to the reeling brain of his challenger it well might seem that Death, now holding the door between betrayed and betrayer might not prevail.

The boy’s heart was a stone within him, and he saw not why God allowed much that went on beneath His throne.  A long time he endured, half prone upon the sand, hating the sound of the surf, hating the flash of the lightning; but at last, when a great part of the night had passed, he arose and went towards his master.  The shadow of the dune disguised the slightness of his form, and his foot struck with some violence against a shell.  The lightning flashed, and he saw Ferne’s waiting face.

“Master, master!” he cried. “’Tis only Robin,—­not him! not him!  Master—­”

Stumbling over the sand, he fell beside the man whose soul cried in vain unto Robert Baldry to return and claim his vengeance, and wrenched at the hand that seemed to have grown to the sword-hilt.  “You are not kind!” he wailed.  “Oh, let me have it!”

“Kind!” echoed Ferne, slowly.  “In this sick universe there is no kindness—­no, nor never was!  There is the space between rack and torch.”  In the flashing of the lightning he loosed his rigid clasp, and the sword, clanking against the scabbard, fell upon the sand.  The lightning widened into a sheet of pale violet and the surf broke with a deeper voice.  “Canst thou not find me, O mine enemy?” cried Ferne, aloud.

Presently, the boy yet clinging to him, he sank down beside him on the sand.  “Sleep, boy; sleep,” he said.  “Now I know that the gulf is fixed indeed, and that they lie who say the ghost returns.”

“It is near the dawning,” said the boy.  “Do you rest, master, and I will watch.”

“Nay,” answered the other.  “I have pictures to look upon....  Well, well, lay thy head upon the sand and dream of a merry world, and I myself will close my eyes.  An he will, he may take me sleeping.”

Robin slept and dreamed of Ferne House and the horns of the hunters.  At last the horns came so loudly over the hills that he awakened, to find himself lying alone on the sand in a great and solemn flush of dawn.  He started up with a beating heart; but there, coming towards him from a bath in the misty sea, was his master, dressed, and with his sword again in its sheath.  As he made closer approach, the strengthening dawn showed the distinction of form and countenance.  To the latter had returned the stillness and the worn beauty of yesterday, before the bark from Pampatar had brought news.  The head was bared, and the light fell curiously upon the short and waving hair, imparting to it, as it seemed, some quality of its own.  Robin, beholding, stumbled to his feet, staring and trembling.