What had he done?  It was no light thing for a boy of his years, ignorant of life and the world, to cut himself adrift from old ties and voyage into the unknown.  Had he been wise?  He had no trade as a standby; his whole endowment was his youth and his wits.  Would they suffice?  Diggle’s talk had opened up an immense prospect, full of color and mystery and romance, chiming well with his daydreams.  Was it possible that, sailing to India, he might find some of his dreams come true?

Could he trust Diggle, a stranger, by his own admission an adventurer, a man who had run through two fortunes already?  He had no reason for distrust; Diggle was well educated, a gentleman, frank, amiable.  What motive could he have for leading a boy astray?

Mingled with Desmond’s Irish impulsiveness there was a strain of caution derived from the stolid English yeomen, his forebears on the maternal side.  He felt the need, before crossing his Rubicon, of taking counsel with someone older and wiser—­with a tried friend.  Sir Willoughby Stokes, the squire, had always been kind to him.  Would it not be well to put his case to the squire and follow his advice?  But he durst not venture to the Hall yet.  His brother might suspect that he had gone there and seize him, or intercept him on the way.  He would wait.  It was the squire’s custom to spend a quiet hour in his own room long after the time when other folk in that rural neighborhood were abed.  Desmond sometimes sat with him there, reading or playing chess.  If he went up to the Hall at nine o’clock he would be sure of a welcome.

The evening passed slowly for Desmond in his enforced idleness.  At nine o’clock, leaving his bundle in a hollow tree, he set off toward the Hall, taking a short cut across the fields.  It was a dark night, and he stopped with a start as, on descending a stile overhung by a spreading sycamore, he almost struck against a person who had just preceded him.

“Who’s that?” he asked quickly, stepping back a little:  it was unusual to meet anyone in the fields at so late an hour.

“Be that you, Measter Desmond?”

“Oh, ’tis you, Dickon.  What are you doing this way at such an hour?  You ought to have been abed long ago.”

“Ay, sure, Measter Desmond; but I be goin’ to see squire,” said the old man, apparently with some hesitation.

“That’s odd.  So am I. We may as well walk together, then—­for fear of the ghosts, eh, Dickon?”

“I binna afeard o’ ghosts, not I. True, ‘tis odd I be goin’ to see squire.  I feel it so.  Squire be a high man, and I ha’ never dared lift up my voice to him oothout axen.  But ‘tis to be.  I ha’ summat to tell him, low born as I be; ay, I mun tell him, cost what it may.”

“Well, he’s not a dragon.  I have something to tell him too—­cost what it may.”

There was silence for a space.  Then Dickon said tremulously: 

“Bin it a great matter, yourn, sir, I make bold to axe?”