And then the time came and Caliban pulled the boat across and I pressed Margarita's hand and stood up to go. Roger took both my hands and wrung them.
"I couldn't speak about the ring, Jerry," he said, quickly and very low, "it's no use trying. But you understand?"
"That's all right, Roger," I muttered hastily, "it's the best use I'm likely to make of it. Good-bye, old fellow. God bless you, Roger," and I stumbled into the boat.
Caliban pulled hard at the oars and we slid away. I looked at them once. For a full minute—dear fellow—he stared wistfully after me (oh, Roger, you'll never forget, never, I know! Twenty-five years are over and gone to-night, and the close, unrivalled companionship of them, and I am alone from now on—but you'll not forget!) and then they turned to each other and I was no more than a speck on the evening water. "Put your back into it, man; get along, can't you?" I growled to Caliban. We shot ahead and left them to each other, alone under the heavy, yellow moon and the close, secret stars.
PART FOUR
IN WHICH THE STREAM WINDS THROUGH A
SULLEN MARSH AND BECOMES A BROOK
