One thing he still could do. Revolution needed munitions, parks of artillery, hospital stores. Money could furnish these—it was the sinews of war. If such were the object of Blaquiere’s visit, he should not be disappointed. He possessed, unentailed, Newstead Abbey, the seat of his ancestors, to whose memory he had clung fondly through all his ostracism—and there were his coal lands of Rochdale. The latter could be realized on without difficulty. His sister had a private fortune of her own. Ada, his child, had been provided for at her birth. Rochdale should bring close upon thirty thousand pounds.
He spoke to Blaquiere:
“Lieutenant, Greece had my earliest songs. She shall have what she can use to far better advantage now. Mr. Dallas, who starts for London to-morrow, will take back my authority for the sale of certain properties whose proceeds shall be turned over to your committee there.”
Mavrocordato’s face flushed with feeling. He turned his eyes on Blaquiere. A glance of understanding passed between them, and the latter rose.
“Your lordship,” he said, “the thanks of our committee are small return for such a gift. The gratitude of Greece will be an ampler recompense. But—I am here to ask yet more than this.”
As Gordon gazed inquiringly, he laid two documents before him on the table:
“Will your lordship read?”
Gordon took up the first. A tremor leaped to his lips. He saw his own credentials, signed by the full committee in London, as their representative—in Greece. His eye caught the well-known, cramped chirography of John Hobhouse among the signatures.
For a moment his heart seemed to stop. He looked at the second, glancing at the names affixed: “Alexander Hypsilantes”—“Marco Botzaris”—a dozen Greek primates and leaders. The name of one man there present had been added—Mavrocordato.
As he read, the room was very still. The deep breathing of the men who waited seemed to fill it. He heard Blaquiere’s voice piercing through: