‘You must not excite yourself,’ said Ernest, laying his hand kindly on the old man’s arm. ‘Remember, first of all, that the offender is beyond pursuit; that he was baulked in his evil purpose, and that he suffered ignominious defeat, chiefly through the timely help of Jack Windsor, who assisted me to rout the attacking force.’ ‘Good God!’ exclaimed the old man. ‘Attack—defeat; what has happened? and I sat gossiping at the club, while you were defending my home and my honour!’ ‘Could I do less? However, you had better hear the whole story straight out. No harm has been done, and the enemy was routed with loss.’ The story was told. Full justice was done to Antonia’s heroism. Jack Windsor’s prowess received its meed of praise. His own fortunate overthrow of the Count by good luck and a little more practice in wrestling than continental usages render familiar, was slightly alluded to. Finally, he explained his reasons for assisting the escape of Von Schätterheims, and thereby confining the scandal of his attempted abduction to the narrow limit of the actual participators in the affray. Mr. Frankston walked the deck of a long-departed imaginary vessel so long without speaking that Ernest feared some rending typhoon of wrath after the enforced calm. But the event justified his best surmises. Placing his hand upon his guest’s arm, Paul said, in a voice vibrating with emotion— ‘I see in you, Ernest Neuchamp, a man who this day has saved my honour and my life—hers, to whom this poor remnant of existence is but as this worthless weed.’ (Here he cast from him the half-consumed cigar.) ‘From this day forth you are my son—take everything that I can give. Paul Frankston holds nothing back from the man who has done what you have done this day. I am but your steward—your manager, my dear boy, henceforward.’ ‘There is _one_ of your possessions—the most precious, the most priceless among them,’ answered Ernest, holding up his head with a do-or-die sort of air, ‘and that one I now ask of you. We are past phrases with each other. But you will understand that I at least do not undervalue the worth of Antonia Frankston’s heart, of your daughter’s hand!’ Mr. Frankston once more paced the long-faded deck and communed with the broad and heaving deep. Then he turned. His eyes, from which the strange fire had faded wholly out, had a softened, perhaps somewhat clouded light. ‘Ernest Neuchamp,’ he said, ‘if this day has witnessed, perhaps, the most bitter insult, the deepest humiliation to which Paul Frankston has ever been subjected, it has also witnessed his greatest joy. Take her—with her old father’s blessing. You have, what he considers, earth’s greatest treasure; and it is no flattery, but honest liking, when he swears that you are worthy of her. As far as human look-out can see over life’s course, Paul Frankston’s troubles and anxieties are over. Now I can take my cigar again.’