Christian raised his hand slowly to his forehead. The gleam of the sleek, smooth water flowing past his feet made him giddy. He wondered vaguely if the strange, dull feeling that was creeping over his senses was the result of extreme fatigue.
“You speak as if we were never going to meet again,” he said dreamily.
The priest did not answer for some moments. His slim hands were tightly clasped upon his knees.
“It is probable,” he said at length, “that such will be the case. If our friendship is discovered it is certain!”
“Then our friendship must not be discovered,” said the practical Englishman.
“But, my friend, that would be deceit—duplicity!”
“A little duplicity, more or less, cannot matter much,” replied Christian, in a harder voice.
The priest looked up sharply, half fearing that his own treachery in the matter of the letter was suspected. But his companion remained silent, and the darkness prevented the expression of his face from being seen.
“And,” continued the Englishman, after a long pause, “I am to be left here?”
There was a peculiar ring of weary indifference in his tone, as if it mattered little where he was left. The priest noticed it and remembered it later.