He listened, but did not trouble to understand.  It was dreamlike, glorious, sublime.  The illustrious visitor had alluded to the fact that Jack, the nice young man, was a connection of his; and had explained that, hearing from Jack of to-day’s appointment, he determined to go right down there and beard the lions in their den.  He had also spoken of a nephew of Sir John’s, who was coming to have a bang at the Abbey partridges in September.  He further reminded the Colonel that he did not consider himself a stranger, because they used to meet often at such and such a place.  He also asked if the Colonel kept up his riding.  Now, without any change of tone, he was talking of the case.

And Dale, watching, felt as if his whole heart had been melted, and as if it was streaming across the room in a warm vapor of gratitude.

“My interest,” said Mr. Barradine, “is simply public spirit; although it is quite true that I know Mr. Dale personally.  Indeed, he and his wife have been friends with me and my family for more years than I care to count.”

Dale caught his breath and coughed.  He was almost overwhelmed by the noble turn of that last phrase.  Friends!  Nothing more, and nothing less.  Not patron and dependents, but friends.

“And, of course,” Mr. Barradine was saying, “I want my friend to come out of it all right—­as I honestly believe he deserves to come out of it.”

Dale felt himself on the verge of breaking down and sobbing.  His strength had gone long ago, and now all his courage went too.  With his gratitude there mingled a cowardly joy that he had not been left to fight things out alone and be beaten, that succor had come at the supreme moment.  Ardently admiring as well as fervently thanking, he watched the friend in need, the splendid ally, the only agent of Providence that could have saved him.

Who would not admire such a prince?

He was old and big, and though rather frail, yet so magnificently grand.  His costume was of the plainest character—­black satin neck-scarf tied negligently, with a pearl pin stuck through it anyhow, a queer sort of black pea-jacket with braid on its edges, square-toed patent-leather boots with white spats—­and, nevertheless, he seemed to be dressed as sumptuously as if he had been wearing all the gold and glitter of his Privy Councilor’s uniform.  His face seemed to Dale like the mask of a Roman emperor—­a high-bridged delicate nose, thin gray hair combed back from a low forehead, a ridge like a straight bar above the tired eyes and a puffiness of flesh below them, a moustache that showed the lose curves of the mouth, and a small pointed beard that perhaps concealed an unbeautiful protrusion of the chin.  His voice, so calm, so evenly modulated, had been trained in the senate and the palace.  His attitude, his manner, his freedom from gesture and emphasis, all indicated a born ruler as well as a born aristocrat.  Was it likely that when he spoke he would fail?