For most of that time we were sitting now on turf, now on a chalk boulder, now on a timber groin, and talking one to the other, with the frankness proper to the intercourse of men of good intent, without reservations or aggressions, in the common, open fashion of contemporary intercourse to-day, but which then, nevertheless, was the rarest and strangest thing in the world.  He for the most part talked, but at some shape of a question I told him—­as plainly as I could tell of passions that had for a time become incomprehensible to me—­of my murderous pursuit of Nettie and her lover, and how the green vapors overcame me.  He watched me with grave eyes and nodded understandingly, and afterwards he asked me brief penetrating questions about my education, my upbringing, my work.  There was a deliberation in his manner, brief full pauses, that had in them no element of delay.

“Yes,” he said, “yes—­of course.  What a fool I have been!” and said no more until we had made another of our tripod struggles along the beach.  At first I did not see the connection of my story with that self-accusation.

“Suppose,” he said, panting on the groin, “there had been such a thing as a statesman! . . .”

He turned to me.  “If one had decided all this muddle shall end!  If one had taken it, as an artist takes his clay, as a man who builds takes site and stone, and made------” He flung out his big broad hand at the glories of sky and sea, and drew a deep breath, “something to fit that setting.”

He added in explanation, “Then there wouldn’t have been such stories as yours at all, you know. . . .”

“Tell me more about it,” he said, “tell me all about yourself.  I feel all these things have passed away, all these things are to be changed for ever. . . .  You won’t be what you have been from this time forth.  All the things you have done—­don’t matter now.  To us, at any rate, they don’t matter at all.  We have met, who were separated in that darkness behind us.  Tell me.

“Yes,” he said; and I told my story straight and as frankly as I have told it to you.  “And there, where those little skerries of weed rock run out to the ebb, beyond the headland, is Bungalow village.  What did you do with your pistol?”

“I left it lying there—­among the barley.”

He glanced at me from under his light eyelashes.  “If others feel like you and I,” he said, “there’ll be a lot of pistols left among the barley to-day. . . .”

So we talked, I and that great, strong man, with the love of brothers so plain between us it needed not a word.  Our souls went out to one another in stark good faith; never before had I had anything but a guarded watchfulness for any fellow-man.  Still I see him, upon that wild desolate beach of the ebb tide, I see him leaning against the shelly buttress of a groin, looking down at the poor drowned sailor whose body we presently found.  For we found a newly drowned man who had just chanced to miss this