We thanked him, and with a glance at Mr. Fett—­who had fallen asleep with his head on his arms—­stepped out upon the moonlit terrace.  I waited for Nat to speak and give me a chance to have it out with him, if he doubted (as he must, methought) my father’s sanity.  But he gazed over the park at our feet, the rolling shadows of the woodland, the far estuary where one moonray trembled, and stretching out both hands drew the spiced night-air into his lungs with a sob.

“O Prosper!”

“You are wondering where to find your room?” said I, as he turned and glanced up at the grey glimmering facade.  “The simplest way is to pick up the first lantern you see in the hall, light it, walk upstairs, enter what room you choose and take possession of its bed.  You have five hours to sleep, if you need sleep.  Or shall I guide you?”

“No,” said he; “the first is the only way in this enchanted house.  But I was thinking that by rights, while we are standing here, those windows should blaze with lights and break forth with the noise of dancing and minstrelsy.  To such a castle, high against such a velvet night as this, would Sir Lancelot come, or Sir Gawain, or Sir Perceval, at the close of a hard day.”

“Wait for the dawn, lad, and you will find it rather the castle overgrown with briers.”

“And, in the heart of them, the Rose!”

“You will find no Sleeping Beauty, though you hunt through all its rooms.  She lies yonder, Nat, somewhere out beyond the sea there.”

“In a few hours we sail to her.  O Prosper, and we will find her!  This is better than any dream, lad:  and this is life!”

He gazed into my eyes for a moment in the moonlight, turned on his heel, and strode away from me toward the great door, which—­like every door in the house—­stood wide all the summer night.  I was staring at the shadow of the porch into which he had disappeared, when my father touched my elbow.

“There goes a good lad,” said he, quietly.

“And my best friend.”

“He has sobered down strangely from the urchin I remember on Winchester meads; and in the sobering he has grown exalted.  A man might almost say,” mused my father, “that the imp in him had shed itself off and taken flesh in that Master Fett I left snoring with his head on my dining-table.  An earthy spirit, that Master Fett; earthy and yet somewhat inhuman.  Your Nat Fiennes has the clue of life—­if only Atropos do not slit it.”

Here the Vicar came out to take his leave, winding about his neck and throat the comforter he always wore as a protective against the night-air.  It appeared later that he was nettled by Mr. Badcock’s collapsing beneath the table just as they had reached No.  XX. of the Thirty-nine Articles and passed it through committee by consent.

“God bless you, lad!” said he, and shook my hand.  “In seeking your kingdom you start some way ahead of Saul the son of Kish.  You have already discovered your father’s asses.”