And bells were ringing, and Mr. Zanti, with a lighted candle in his hands, was creeping down those dark stairs that led to the kitchen, and he might have stopped those closing walls but he would not. Then suddenly Peter was running down the Sea Road above Treliss and the waves were sounding furiously below him--his father was there waiting for him sternly, at the road's end and Herr Gottfried with a Homer in one hand and his blue shoes in the other sat watching them out of his bright eyes. His father was waiting to kill him and Mrs. Pascoe was at his elbow. Peter screamed, the sweat was pouring off his forehead, his throat was tight with agony when suddenly by his side was old Frosted Moses, with his flowing beard. “It isn't life that matters,” he was whispering in his old cracked voice, “but the courage that you bring to it.” The figures faded, the light grew broader and broader, and Peter woke to find Mr. Zanti, by the aid of a candle, climbing into bed. But some time passed before he had courage to fall asleep again. CHAPTER XII BROCKETTS: ITS CHARACTER, AND ESPECIALLY MRS. BROCKETT I On the next afternoon about six o'clock, Mr. Zanti, accompanied by the languid and shabby gentleman whom Peter had noticed before, appeared in the shop. “Signor Rastelli,” said Mr. Zanti, and the languid gentleman shook hands with Peter as though he were conferring a great benefit upon him and he hoped Peter wouldn't forget it. “Zis,” said Mr. Zanti, “is my young friend, Peter Westcott, whom I love as if 'e were my own son--Signor Rastelli,” he continued, turning to Peter, “I've known him for very many years and I can only say zat ze longer I 'ave known him ze more admirable I 'ave thought 'im.” The gentleman took off his tall hat, stroked it, put it on again and looked, with his languid eyes, at Peter. “And,” continued Mr. Zanti, cheerfully, conscious perhaps that he was carrying all the conversation on his own shoulders, “'e will take you to a 'ouse where 'e has been for--'ow many years, Signor?” “Ten,” said that gentleman. “For ten years--every comfort. Zere's a little room 'e tells me where you will be 'appy--and all your food and friendship for one pound a week. There!” he ended triumphantly. “Thank you very much,” said Peter, but he did not altogether like the look of the seedily dressed gentleman, and would much rather have stayed with Mr. Zanti. He had packed his black bag in readiness, and now he fetched it and, after promising to be in the shop at half-past eight the next morning, started off with his melancholy guide. The lamps were coming out, and a silence that often falls upon London just before sunset had come down upon the traffic and the people. Windows caught the departing flame, held it for an instant, and sank into grey twilight.