So they went upstairs; and it was a relief to both of them to find that their mother was at the Abbey; for it was for her sake that both dreaded what was coming.  So they went and stood in the bay-window which looked out upon the river, and talked of things indifferent, and looked earnestly at each other’s faces by the fading light, for it was now three years since they had met.

Years and events had deepened the contrast between the two brothers; and Frank smiled with affectionate pride as he looked up in Amyas’s face, and saw that he was no longer merely the rollicking handy sailor-lad, but the self-confident and stately warrior, showing in every look and gesture,

     “The reason firm, the temperate will,
     Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill,”

worthy of one whose education had been begun by such men as Drake and Grenville, and finished by such as Raleigh and Gilbert.  His long locks were now cropped close to the head; but as a set-off, the lips and chin were covered with rich golden beard; his face was browned by a thousand suns and storms; a long scar, the trophy of some Irish fight, crossed his right temple; his huge figure had gained breadth in proportion to its height; and his hand, as it lay upon the window-sill, was hard and massive as a smith’s.  Frank laid his own upon it, and sighed; and Amyas looked down, and started at the contrast between the two—­so slender, bloodless, all but transparent, were the delicate fingers of the courtier.  Amyas looked anxiously into his brother’s face.  It was changed, indeed, since they last met.  The brilliant red was still on either cheek, but the white had become dull and opaque; the lips were pale, the features sharpened; the eyes glittered with unnatural fire:  and when Frank told Amyas that he looked aged, Amyas could not help thinking that the remark was far more true of the speaker himself.

Trying to shut his eyes to the palpable truth, he went on with his chat, asking the names of one building after another.

“And so this is old Father Thames, with his bank of palaces?”

“Yes.  His banks are stately enough; yet, you see, he cannot stay to look at them.  He hurries down to the sea; and the sea into the ocean; and the ocean Westward-ho, forever.  All things move Westward-ho.  Perhaps we may move that way ourselves some day, Amyas.”

“What do you mean by that strange talk?”

“Only that the ocean follows the primum mobile of the heavens, and flows forever from east to west.  Is there anything so strange in my thinking of that, when I am just come from a party where we have been drinking success to Westward-ho?”

“And much good has come of it!  I have lost the best friend and the noblest captain upon earth, not to mention all my little earnings, in that same confounded gulf of Westward-ho.”

“Yes, Sir Humphrey Gilbert’s star has set in the West—­why not?  Sun, moon, and planets sink into the West:  why not the meteors of this lower world? why not a will-o’-the-wisp like me, Amyas?”