So it was true. He felt a sudden liking for this man, he felt he loved him for his weakness and his sin, for would not that weakness, that sin give him that which he wanted most? They talked of the night, of the old garden, of the sweet soft English country air. Scarsdale spoke of the damp night heat of that country which had been the prison of his body and soul.
He was a good talker when he pleased and to-night he wished to please. He wanted this man's liking—he exerted himself to gain it and yet felt a deep contempt of himself while he strove.
He spoke of fights with savages, of fights against disease and death, of perils that made the blood run cold. Yet he did not boast or brag. Dimly Allan realised that the man who was speaking was the hero of these adventures, but Scarsdale never said so.
"You were long away from England, Scarsdale?"
"A thousand years!" Scarsdale said, he laughed softly, "according to the calendar; ten years, to me a thousand! Thank God to be back!" He drew a deep breath.
"Will you go back again?"
"It depends, I do not know, I may, yet I hope not!"
"Perhaps you have come to seek a wife?"
"Yes!"
"But could you take her to this place of which you have been telling me?"