'Oh, yes, it is true. Justinian knows about the wreck, though it happened before he was born. Mr. Fletcher was the only man saved of all the ship and company--captain, officers, crew, and passengers--the only one. He was rescued by Captain Rosevean himself and brought here. He had the bedroom where you sleep--the bedroom which was my brother Emanuel's room. Here he lay ill a long time, but recovered and went away.' 'And the bag?' 'I know nothing about the bag. That has gone long ago, I suppose, with all the money that my people made by smuggling and by piloting. I have seen her watching you for some days past: I thought she would speak to you last night. To-morrow she will have forgotten everything.' 'I suppose I have some kind of resemblance to Mr. Robert Fletcher, presumably deceased. Well--but, Armorel, this is a fortunate evening. The family luck has come back--I have brought it back. The Ancient one said so, and you are saved. She may call me Fletcher--call me Tryeth--call me any name that flyeth--if she only calls me him who arrived in time to save you, Armorel.' CHAPTER XI ROLAND'S LETTER Roland went away. Like Mr. Robert Fletcher, he promised to return, and, like her great-great-grandmother, but for other reasons, Armorel treasured this promise. Also like Mr. Robert Fletcher, now presumably deceased, Roland went away with the sense of having left something behind him. Not his heart, dear reader. A young man of twenty-one does not give away his heart in the old-fashioned way any longer: he carries it about with him, carefully kept in its proper place: what Roland had left behind him, for awhile, was a part of himself. It would perhaps come back to him in good time, but for the present it remained on Samson, and discoursed to the rest of him in London whenever he would listen, on the beauties of that archipelago and the graces of the child Armorel. And this part of himself, which haunted Samson, made him sit down and write a letter. It would have been a tender, a sorrowful, an affectionate letter had it not been for that other part of him--the greater part--which went to London. That other part of him remonstrated. 'She is but a simple country girl,' it said. 'Her future will be to marry a simple Scillonian. Why disturb her mind? Why seek to plant the seeds of discontent under the guise of culture? Leave her--leave her to herself. Forget those dark eyes, in whose depths there seemed to lie so sweet, so great a soul. Believe me, there was nothing at all behind those eyes but ignorance and curiosity. How could there be anything? Leave her in peace. Or, since you must write, let it be a cold letter--friendly, but fatherly--and let her understand clearly that the visit can produce no further consequences whatever.' Thus the London half of him--the bigger half. Perhaps his friend Dick Stephenson remonstrated in the same strain. But the lesser half insisted on writing a letter of some kind--and had his way.