I was silent.  Who was I to argue with Ray, whose fame was in every one’s mouth—­soldier, traveller, and diplomatist?  For many years he had been living hand and glove with life and death.  There were many who spoke well of him, and many ill—­many to whom he was a hero, many to whom his very name was like poison.  But he was emphatically not a man to contradict.  In my little cottage he seemed like a giant, six-foot-two, broad, and swart with the burning fire of tropical suns.  He seemed to fill the place, to dominate me and my paltry surroundings, even as in later years I saw him, the master spirit in a great assembly, eagle-eyed, strenuous, omnipotent.  There was something about him which made other men seem like pygmies.  There was force in the stern self-repression of his speech, in the curve of his lips, the clear lightning of his eyes.

My silence did not seem altogether to satisfy him.  I felt his eyes challenge mine, and I was forced to meet his darkly questioning gaze.

“Come,” he said, “I trust that I have said enough.  You have buried the thought of that hateful word.”

“You have stricken it mortally,” I answered, “but I can scarcely promise so speedy a funeral.  However, what more I feel,” I added, “I will keep to myself.”

“It would be better,” he answered curtly.

“You have asked me,” I said, “many questions.  I am emboldened to ask you one.  You have spoken of my father.”

The look he threw upon me was little short of terrible.

“Ay,” he answered, “I have spoken of him.  Let me tell you this, young man.  If I believed that you were a creature of his breed, if I believed that a drop of his black blood ran in your veins, I would take you by the neck now and throw you into the nearest creek where the water was deep enough to drown.”

I rose to my feet, trembling.

“If those are your feelings, sir,” I declared, “I have no wish to claim your kindness.”

“Sit down, boy,” he answered coldly.  “I have no fear of you.  Nature does not pay us so evil a trick as to send us two such as he in successive generations.”

He rose and looked out of the window.  The storm had abated but little.  The roar of the sea and wind was still like thunder in the air.  Black clouds were driven furiously across the sky, torrents of rain and spray beat every now and then upon the window.  He turned back and examined the carriage lamp.

“It is an awful night,” I said.  “I cannot offer you a bed unless you will take mine, but I can bring rugs and a pillow to the fire if you will lie there.”

Then for the only time in my life I saw him hesitate.  He looked out of my uncurtained window into the night.  Very often have I wondered what thought it was that passed then through his brain.

“I thank you,” he said; “the walk is nothing, and they will expect me at Rowchester.  You have pencil and paper.  Write down what I tell you.—­Colonel Mostyn Ray, No. 17, Sussex Square.  You have that?  Good!  It is my address.  Presently I think you will get tired of your life here.  Come then to me.  I may be able to show you the way—­”