"Do you mean," said I, "that you listened when they did not know of your being there?"
"And why not?" he replied. "It did interest me, and to them only good might come."
"But," said I, "it was not—"
"Well?" he added as I paused. "—'Was not honor,' you were going to say to me. And why not? I obey my nature, which is more curious than stocked with honor. I did listen."
"And what did you hear?" said I.
"Ah, hear!" he answered. "What better is the receiver than is the thief? Well, then, if you will share my stolen goods, you shall know, and I will tell you as I heard, my memory being good."
"But—" said I.
"Too late you stop me," he added: "you must hear now."
The scene which he went on to sketch was to me strange and curious, nor could I have thought he could give so perfect a rendering of the language, and even the accent, of the two speakers. It was a curious revelation of the man himself, and he seemed to enjoy his power, and yet to suffer in the telling, without perhaps being fully conscious of it. The oars dropped from his hands and fell in against the thwarts of the boat, and he clasped his knees and looked up as he talked, not regarding at all his single silent listener.
"When this is to be put upon the stage there shall be a garden and two personages."