‘Take a draught of wine, kinsman,’ observed Cestus; ‘it is a wonderful balm for scratched feelings.’
Masthlion, with a sad smile, filled up his cup—‘I drink to the child’s happy restoration and her future welfare;’ and he added, after a pause, ‘May she be tended as lovingly and tenderly as she has been under this humble roof.’
‘I will drink to that with pleasure,’ cried the other; ‘restored she shall be, without doubt, but, for the rest, I cannot say.’
They both drank and set down their cups, and Cestus remarked that it was time he was in bed.
‘Enough for to-night; it has given you something to ponder over, and we can have some more to say presently. But, until the time is ripe to act, potter, you must keep all this secret. Not a word to the child, or to your wife, until fit time.’
‘I will not,’ answered Masthlion.
‘Swear it, kinsman, for we may have to wait long yet.’
‘I never broke my word,’ said Masthlion proudly.
‘Enough; then I will trust to you,’ said Cestus. ‘Roll up those traps and keep them safe; and, on your life, breathe not a word to a living soul. Good-night!’
Cestus departed to his pallet bed upstairs, but Masthlion remained sitting before the fire for a long time in deep reflection. The small hours arrived, and his wife awoke to find her husband still missing from her side. She stole downstairs to find him musing and sighing, deeply and heavily, from time to time. The fire had smouldered down to a few red embers, and the room was chilly; but the heartsore man did not know. His wondering wife’s hand on his shoulder roused him, and he followed quietly to bed, but not to sleep. Tibia saw instinctively that something was wrong, and she, just as swiftly, ascribed that something to her brother; but, failing to gain anything satisfactory by her inquiries, she wisely allowed the matter to slumber the while.