“You’re a rum little devil, aren’t you?” said Saltash.

“I’m honest, sir!  Really I’m honest!” Desperately the bony hands clung.  “You won’t be sorry if you take me.  I swear you’ll never be sorry!”

“What about you?” said Saltash.  He was looking down into the upraised face with a semi-quizzical compassion in his own.  “Think you’d never be sorry either?”

A sudden smile gleamed across the drawn face.  “Of course I shouldn’t!  You’re English.”

“Ah!” said Saltash, with a faintly wry expression.  “Not necessarily white on that account, my friend, so don’t run away with that idea, I beg!  I’m quite capable of giving you a worse drubbing than the good Antonio, for instance, if you qualified for it.  I can be a terrifically wild beast upon occasion.  Look here, you imp!  Are you starved or what?  Do you want something to eat?”

The wiry fingers tightened on his arm.  “No, sir—­no, my lord—­not really.  I often don’t eat.  I’m used to it.”

“But why the devil not?” demanded Saltash.  “Didn’t they feed you over there?”

“Yes—­oh, yes.  But I didn’t want it.  I was—­too miserable.”  The blue eyes blinked rapidly under his look as if half-afraid of him.

“You little ass!” said Saltash in a voice that somehow reassured.  “Sit down there!  Curl up if you like, and don’t move till I come back!”

He indicated the sofa, and quite gently but with decision freed his arm from the nervously gripping hands.

“You won’t send me back?” the boy urged with quivering supplication.

“No, I won’t do that,” said Saltash as he went away.

He swore once or twice with considerable energy ere he returned, cursing the absent Antonio in language that would have outmatched the Italian’s own.  Then, having relieved his feelings, he abruptly laughed to himself and pursued his errand with business-like briskness.

Returning, he found his protege in a small heap on the sofa, with his head deep in the cushion as though he sought escape from the light.  Again the feeling of harbouring some small animal in pain came to him, and he frowned.  The mute misery of that huddled form held a more poignant appeal than any words.

“Look here,—­Toby!” he said.  “I’ve brought you something to eat, and when you’ve had it you’d better get a sleep.  You can tell me all about it—­if you want to—­in the morning.”

The boy started upright at his coming.  He looked at Saltash in his quick, startled way.  It was almost as if he expected a kick at any moment.  Then he looked at the tray he carried and suddenly his face crumpled; he hid it in his hands.

“Oh, dash it!” said Saltash.  “Let’s have a little sense!”

He set down the tray and flicked the fair head admonishingly, with his thumb, still frowning.  “Come!  Be a sport!” he said.

After a brief pause with a tremendous effort the boy pulled himself together and sat up, but he did not raise his eyes to Saltash again.  He kept them fixed upon his hands which were tightly clasped in front of him.