Rake’s voice shook a little toward the close of his harangue, and in the shadows of evening light, as the train plunged through the gathering gloom, his ruddy, bright, bronzed face looked very pale and wistful.

Cecil stretched out his hand to him in silence that spoke better than words.

Rank hung his head.

“No, sir; you’re a gentleman, and I’ve been an awful scamp!  It’s enough honor for me that you would do it.  When I’m more worth it, perhaps—­but that won’t never be.”

“You are worth it now, my gallant fellow.”  His voice was very low; the man’s loyalty touched him keenly.  “It was only for yourself, Rake, that I ever wished you to leave me.”

“God bless you, sir!” said Rake passionately; “them words are better nor ten tosses of brandy!  You see, sir, I’m so spry and happy in a wild life, I am, and if so be as you go to them American parts as you spoke on, why I know ’em just as well as I know Newmarket Heath, every bit!  They’re terrible rips in them parts; kill you as soon as look at you; it makes things uncommon larky out there, uncommon spicy.  You aren’t never sure but what there’s a bowie knife a-waiting for you.”

With which view of the delights of Western life, Rake, “feeling like a fool,” as he thought himself, for which reason he had diverged into Argentine memories, applied himself to the touching and examining of the rifle with that tenderness which only gunnery love and lore produce.

Cecil sat silent a while, his head drooped down on his hands, while the evening deepened to night.  At last he looked up.

“The King?  Where is he?”

Rake flushed shamefacedly under his tanned skin.

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir; behind you.”

“Behind me?”

“Yes, sir; him and the brown mare.  I couldn’t do nothing else with ’em you see, sir, so I shipped him along with us; they don’t care for the train a bit, bless their hearts!  And I’ve got a sharp boy a-minding of ’em.  You can easily send ’em on to England from Paris if you’re determined to part with ’em; but you know the King always was fond of drums and trumpets and that like.  You remember, sir, when he as a colt we broke him into it and taught him a bit of maneuvering; ’cause, till you find what pace he had in him, you’d thought of making a charger of him.  He loves the noise of soldiering—­he do; and if he thought you was going away without him, he’d break his heart, Mr. Cecil, sir.  It was all I could do to keep him from follerin’ of you this morning; he sawed my arms off almost.”

With which, Rake, conscious that he had been guilty of unpardonable disobedience and outrageous interference, hung his head over the gun; a little anxious and a good deal ashamed.

Cecil smiled a little, despite himself.

“Rake, you will do for no service, I am afraid; you are terribly insubordinate!”

He had not the heart to say more; the man’s fidelity was too true to be returned with rebuke; and stronger than all surprise and annoyance was a strange mingling of pain and pleasure in him to think that the horse he loved so well was still so near him, the comrade of his adversity as he had been the companion of his happiest hours.