When Forester entered the Knight's room in the inn, where, in calm quietude, he sat awaiting the verdict, he hesitated for a moment how he should break the joyful tidings of Daly's arrival.
“Speak out,” said Darcy. “If not exactly without hope, I am well prepared for the worst.”
“Can you say you are equally ready to hear the best?” asked Forester, eagerly.
“The best is a very strong word, my young friend,” said Darcy, gravely.
“And yet, I speak advisedly,—the best.”
“If so, perhaps I am not so prepared. My heart has dwelt so long on these troubles, recognizing them as I felt they must be, that I would, perhaps, ask a little time to think how I should hear tidings so remote from all expectation. Of course, I do not speak of the mere verdict here.”
“Nor I,” interposed Forester, impatiently. “I speak of what restores you to your ancient house and rank, your station and your fortune.”
“Can this be true?”
“Ay, Maurice, every word of it,” broke in Daly, who, having listened so far, could no longer restrain himself. The two old men fell into each other's arms with all the cordial affection with which they had embraced as schoolfellows sixty years before.
Great as was Darcy's amazement at seeing his oldest friend thus suddenly restored, it was nothing in comparison to what he felt as Daly narrated the event of the shipwreck, and his rescue from the sinking vessel by Forester.