“You are wounded.”
“I am dying.”
The derelict raised his head and looked sternly at the men in the room, who seeing him look at them, fell upon their knees, striking their heads thrice upon the floor.
“It is well.”
He studied the sad profile above him.
“Priest,” his voice was without its wildness, “priest, I am dying. It is what I have been trying to do for many years—by land and by sea——”
The pain of speaking became too great.
He fumbled with the chain around his neck, consisting of gold links each about an inch and a half in length, and made up of two dragons contending for a pearl.
The priest removed it, and the derelict, taking it in his hands, whispered:
“Closer!”