“Captain,” he said, and thrust a hand into the bosom of his tunic—“Captain, for Heaven’s sake, don’t do that! Don’t apologize to me. I understand. Leave me alone. Here’s the letter. There were six—this is the last.”
Lewis’s strained muscles relaxed, his blazing eyes softened.
“Shannon!” he whispered once more. “What have I done?”
He took the letter in his hand, but did not look at it, although his fingers could feel the seal unbroken.
“Why do you give it to me now, boy?” he asked at length. “What changed you?”
“Because it’s orders, sir. She ordered me—that is, she asked me—to give you these letters at times when you seemed to need them most—when you were sick or in trouble, when anything had gone wrong. We couldn’t figure so far on ahead when I ought to give you each one. I had to do my best. I didn’t know at first, but now I see that you’re sick. You’re not yourself—you’re in trouble. She told me not to let you know who carried them,” he added rather inconsequently. “She said that that might end it all. She thought that you might come back.”
“Come back—when?”
“She didn’t know—we couldn’t any of us tell—it was all a guess. All this about the letters was left to me, to do my best. I couldn’t ask you, Captain, or any one. I don’t know what was in the letters, sir, and I don’t ask you, for that’s not my business; but I promised her.”
“What did she promise you?”