“And much good has come of it! I have lost the best friend and the noblest captain upon earth, not to mention all my little earnings, in that same confounded gulf of Westward-ho.”
“Yes, Sir Humphrey Gilbert's star has set in the West—why not? Sun, moon, and planets sink into the West: why not the meteors of this lower world? why not a will-o'-the-wisp like me, Amyas?”
“God forbid, Frank!”
“Why, then? Is not the West the land of peace, and the land of dreams? Do not our hearts tell us so each time we look upon the setting sun, and long to float away with him upon the golden-cushioned clouds? They bury men with their faces to the East. I should rather have mine turned to the West, Amyas, when I die; for I cannot but think it some divine instinct which made the ancient poets guess that Elysium lay beneath the setting sun. It is bound up in the heart of man, that longing for the West. I complain of no one for fleeing away thither beyond the utmost sea, as David wished to flee, and be at peace.”
“Complain of no one for fleeing thither?” asked Amyas. “That is more than I do.”
Frank looked inquiringly at him; and then—
“No. If I had complained of any one, it would have been of you just now, for seeming to be tired of going Westward-ho.”
“Do you wish me to go, then?”
“God knows,” said Frank, after a moment's pause. “But I must tell you now, I suppose, once and for all. That has happened at Bideford which—”
“Spare us both, Frank; I know all. I came through Bideford on my way hither; and came hither not merely to see you and my mother, but to ask your advice and her permission.”