He seemed not to heed my words of sympathy, wrung from me by my swift comprehension of all he had lost; instead, he stood there before me, almost like those who are turned to stone, making no movement, only speaking as one speaks who encounters a doom that has fallen on him, as one who tells how hope and he have parted forever on wide, diverging roads.
"There were others besides myself," he continued, "who had ruined all by their act of madness, others of my own land who had gained their pardon, and lost it now forever, flung away all hopes of another life, of happier days to come, for the dross that we apportioned between ourselves, though in our frenzy we almost cast it into the sea. As for my share, though 'twas another fortune, I would not touch a pistole, but sent it instead to the priest I have spoken of--sent it by a sure hand--and bade him keep it for my child, add it to that which Eaton held for her; told him, too, to guard it well, since neither he nor she would ever see me more!"
"And after--after?" I asked.
"After, we disbanded--parted. I went my way, they theirs; earned my living hardly, yet honestly, in Hispaniola; should never have left the island had I not discovered that Eaton, who even then sometimes passed under the name of Carstairs--that was his honest name--and who had long since disappeared from my knowledge, was having a large amount of goods and merchandise shipped under that name in the fleet of galleons, about to sail as soon as possible. And then--then--knowing how he had treated the child I left in his care--the child of my dead and lost love--I swore to sail in those galleons, to find him, to avenge----" He paused, exclaiming, "Hark! What is that?"
Above--I heard it as soon as he--there was a footfall on the floor. We knew that Juana was moving, had arisen.
"Go to her," he said, and I thought that his voice was changed--was still more broken--"Go; it may be she needs something. Go."
"Is this our last farewell? Surely we shall meet again."
"Go. And--and--tell her--her father--nay. Tell her nothing. Go."
O'ermastered by his words, by, I think, too, the misery of the man who had been my companion through the dreary night, my heart wrung with sorrow for him who stood there so sad a figure, I went, obeying his behest.
But ere I did so, and before I opened the door that gave on the stairs leading to her room, I took his hand, and whispered: