The others understood the reference, and even the polished Frenchman looked into the fire and had nothing to say. Kingswell studied the water-bleached toes of his boots, and Beatrix glanced piteously at her father. For Sir Ralph Westleigh's life had known much of fool's gold, and much of many another folly, and something of that to which his acquaintances in Somerset—and, for that matter, in all England—gave a stronger and less lenient name. The baronet had lived hard; but his story comes later.
"I knew nothing of this plantation of yours," said Kingswell, presently. "I did not know, even, that you were interested in colonization—and yet you have been here a matter of two years, so Trigget tells me."
"Yes, and likely to die here—unless I am unearthed," replied Sir Ralph, bitterly, and with a meaning glance at Kingswell. "I put entire faith in my friends," he added. "And they are all in this little fort on Gray Goose River. My undoing lies in their hands."
"Sir Ralph," replied Kingswell, uneasily but stoutly, "I hope your trust has been extended to me,—yes, and to my men. Your wishes in any matter of—of silence or the like—are our orders. My fellows are true as steel. My friends are theirs. The young Beothic would risk his life for you at a word from me."
The baronet was visibly affected by this speech. He laid a hand on the young man's knee and peered into his face.
"Then you are a friend—out and out?" he inquired.
"To the death," said the other, huskily.
"And you have heard? Of course you have heard!"
"Yes."
"It is not for me to say 'God bless you' to any man," said Sir Ralph, "but it's good of you. I feel your kindness more deeply than I can say. I have forgotten my old trick of making pretty speeches."