Seated in a kind of porch, beside an immense telescope, was a very old man in a panama hat, with a rattan cane.  His pure-white beard and moustache, and almost black eyebrows, gave a very singular, piercing look to his little, restless, dark-grey eyes; all over his mahogany cheeks and neck was a network of fine wrinkles.  He sat quite upright, in the full sun, hardly blinking.

“Dad!” said Zachary, “this is Pasiance Voisey.”  The old man turned his eyes on her and muttered, “How do you do, ma’am?” then took no further notice.  And Pasiance, who seemed to resent this, soon slipped away and went wandering about amongst the pines.  An old woman brought some plates and bottles and laid them casually on a table; and we sat round the figure of old Captain Pearse without a word, as if we were all under a spell.

Before lunch there was a little scene between Zachary Pearse and Dan, as to which of them should summon Pasiance.  It ended in both going, and coming back without her.  She did not want any lunch, would stay where she was amongst the pines.

For lunch we had chops, wood-pigeons, mushrooms, and mulberry preserve, and drank wonderful Madeira out of common wine-glasses.  I asked the old man where he got it; he gave me a queer look, and answered with a little bow: 

“Stood me in tu shillin’ the bottle, an’ the country got nothing out of it, sir.  In the early Thirties; tu shillin’ the bottle; there’s no such wine nowadays and,” he added, looking at Zachary, “no such men.”

Zachary smiled and said:  “You did nothing so big, dad, as what I’m after, now!”

The old man’s eyes had a sort of disdain in them.

“You’re going far, then, in the Pied Witch, Zack?”

“I am,” said Zachary.

“And where might yu be goin’ in that old trampin’ smut factory?”

“Morocco.”

“Heu!” said the old man, “there’s nothing there; I know that coast, as I know the back o’ my hand.”  He stretched out a hand covered with veins and hair.

Zachary began suddenly to pour out a flood of words: 

“Below Mogador—­a fellow there—­friend of mine—­two years ago now.  Concessions—­trade-gunpowder—­cruisers—­feuds—­money& mdash;chiefs—­Gatling guns—­Sultan—­rifles—­rebellion—­gold.”  He detailed a reckless, sordid, bold scheme, which, on the pivot of a trading venture, was intended to spin a whole wheel of political convulsions.

“They’ll never let you get there,” said old Pearse.

“Won’t they?” returned Zachary.  “Oh yes, they will, an’ when I leave, there’ll be another dynasty, and I’ll be a rich man.”

“Yu’ll never leave,” answered the old man.

Zachary took out a sheet of paper covered with figures.  He had worked the whole thing out.  So much—­equipment, so much—­trade, so much—­concessions, so much—­emergencies.  “My last mag!” he ended, “a thousand short; the ship’s ready, and if I’m not there within a month my chance is as good as gone.”