The Colonel turned in his saddle and scrutinised him. The lancer's visage was imperturbable.
"Ormond," he said in a low voice, "whatever you think of me—whatever your attitude toward me is, I would like you to believe that I wish to be your friend."
Berkley's expression remained unchanged.
"It is my desire," said the older man, "my—very earnest—desire."
The young lancer was mute.
Arran's voice fell still lower:
"Some day—if you cared to—if you could talk over some—matters with me, I would be very glad. Perhaps you don't entirely understand me. Perhaps I have given you an erroneous impression concerning—matters—which it is too late to treat differently—in the light of riper experience—and in a knowledge born of years—solitary and barren years——"
He bent his gray head thoughtfully, then, erect in his saddle again:
"I would like to be your friend," he said in a voice perceptibly under control.
"Why?" asked Berkley harshly. "Is there any reason on God's earth why I could ever forgive you?"