“It is well. The past is past. The future is in your hands, Oliver. God’s blessing on’t.” He seemed to collapse, to rally yet again. He smiled pensively, his mind already wandering. “That was a long swim last night—the longest I ever swam. From Penarrow to Trefusis—a fine long swim. But you were with me, Noll. Had my strength given out...I could have depended on you. I am still chill from it, for it was cold... cold... ugh!” He shuddered, and lay still.
Gently Sir John lowered him to his couch. Beyond it Rosamund fell upon her knees and covered her face, whilst by Sir John’s side Oliver continued to kneel, clasping in his own his brother’s chilling hands.
There ensued a long spell of silence. Then with a heavy sigh Sir Oliver folded Lionel’s hands across his breast, and slowly, heavily rose to his feet.
The others seemed to take this for a signal. It was as if they had but waited mute and still out of deference to Oliver. Lord Henry moved softly round to Rosamund and touched her lightly upon the shoulder. She rose and went out in the wake of the others, Lord Henry following her, and none remaining but the surgeon.
Outside in the sunshine they checked. Sir John stood with bent head and hunched shoulders, his eyes upon the white deck. Timidly almost—a thing never seen before in this bold man—he looked at Sir Oliver.
“He was my friend,” he said sorrowfully, and as if to excuse and explain himself, “and... and I was misled through love of him.”
“He was my brother,” replied Sir Oliver solemnly. “God rest him!”
Sir John, resolved, drew himself up into an attitude preparatory to receiving with dignity a rebuff should it be administered him.
“Can you find it in your generosity, sir, to forgive me?” he asked, and his air was almost one of challenge.
Silently Sir Oliver held out his hand. Sir John fell upon it almost in eagerness.