"I should be here," said Jason, simply.
"My lad, my brave lad," cried Sunlocks, "what are you saying? If you cannot think for yourself, then think for me. If what I have said were to occur, should I ever know another moment's happiness? No, never, never, though I regained my sight, as they say I may, and my place and my friends—all save one—and lived a hundred years."
Jason started at that thought, but there was no one to look upon his face under the force of it, and he wriggled with it and threw it off.
"But you will come back," he said. "If the despatch comes while you are away, I will say that you are coming, and you will come."
"I may never come back," said Sunlocks. "Only think, my lad. This is winter, and we are on the verge of the Arctic seas, with five and thirty miles of water dividing us from the mainland. He would be a bold man who would count for a day on whether in which a little fishing smack could live. And a storm might come up and keep me back."
"The same storm that would keep you back," said Jason, "would keep back the despatch. But why hunt after these chances? Have you any reason to fear that the despatch will come to-day, or to-morrow, or the next day? No, you have none. Then go, and for form's sake—just that, no more, no less—let me wait here until you return."
There was another moment's silence, and then Sunlocks said, "Is that the condition of my going?"
"Yes," said Jason.
"Did this old priest impose it?" asked Sunlocks.