“How so?” I urged, being eager to know more of the man who wore the garb and tongue of Penn, and could swear roundly when moved.

“If it will amuse,” said the German, “I will tell you what it befell me to hear to-day, being come into the parlor when Mistress White and Wholesome were in the garden, of themselves lonely.”

“Do you mean,” said I, “that you listened when they did not know of your being there?”

“And why not?” he replied.  “It did interest me, and to them only good might come.”

“But,” said I, “it was not—­”

“Well?” he added as I paused. “—­’Was not honor,’ you were going to say to me.  And why not?  I obey my nature, which is more curious than stocked with honor.  I did listen.”

“And what did you hear?” said I.

“Ah, hear!” he answered.  “What better is the receiver than is the thief?  Well, then, if you will share my stolen goods, you shall know, and I will tell you as I heard, my memory being good.”

“But—­” said I.

“Too late you stop me,” he added:  “you must hear now.”

The scene which he went on to sketch was to me strange and curious, nor could I have thought he could give so perfect a rendering of the language, and even the accent, of the two speakers.  It was a curious revelation of the man himself, and he seemed to enjoy his power, and yet to suffer in the telling, without perhaps being fully conscious of it.  The oars dropped from his hands and fell in against the thwarts of the boat, and he clasped his knees and looked up as he talked, not regarding at all his single silent listener.

“When this is to be put upon the stage there shall be a garden and two personages.”

“Also,” said I, “a jealous listener behind the scenes.”

“If you please,” he said promptly, and plunged at once into the dialogue he had overheard: 

“’Richard, thee may never again say the words which thee has said to me to-night.  There is, thee knows, that between us which is builded up like as a wall to keep us the one from the other.’

“’But men and women change, and a wall crumbles, or thee knows it may be made to.  Years have gone away, and the man who stole from thee thy promise may be dead, for all thee knows.’

“’Hush! thee makes me to see him, and though the dead rise not here, I am some way assured he is not yet dead, and may come and say to me, “’Cilla”—­that is what he called me—­“thee remembers the night and thy promise, and the lightning all around us, and who took thee to shore from the wrecked packet on the Bulkhead Bar.”  The life he saved I promised.’

“Well, and thee knows—­By Heaven! you well enough know who tortured the life he gave—­who robbed you—­who grew to be a mean sot, and went away and left you; and to such you hold, with such keep faith, and wear out the sweetness of life waiting for him!’

“‘Richard!’

“’Have I also not waited, and given up for thee a life, a career—­little to give.  I hope thee knows I feel that.  Has thee no limit, Priscilla?  Thee knows—­God help me! how well you know—­I love you.  The world, the old world of war and venture, pulls at me always.  Will not you find it worth while to put out a hand of help?  Would it not be God taking your hand and putting it in mine?’