Attwater read his face attentively.
“It would depend a good deal upon what you are,” said he.
“What I am? A coward!” said Herrick.
“There is very little to be done with that,” said Attwater. “And yet the description hardly strikes one as exhaustive.”
“O, what does it matter?” cried Herrick. “Here I am. I am broken crockery; I am a burst drum; the whole of my life is gone to water; I have nothing left that I believe in, except my living horror of myself. Why do I come to you? I don’t know; you are cold, cruel, hateful; and I hate you, or I think I hate you. But you are an honest man, an honest gentleman. I put myself, helpless, in your hands. What must I do? If I can’t do anything, be merciful and put a bullet through me; it’s only a puppy with a broken leg!”
“If I were you, I would pick up that pistol, come up to the house, and put on some dry clothes,” said Attwater.
“If you really mean it?” said Herrick. “You know they—we—they.... But you know all.”
“I know quite enough,” said Attwater. “Come up to the house.”
And the captain, from the deck of the Farallone, saw the two men pass together under the shadow of the grove.