In a room above-stairs which his grace had commanded in an inn at the corner of Paternoster Row, they sat alone, the Duke of Buckingham and the man to whom he owed his life. There was no doubt of the extent of the debt, as both well knew. For on that night, long years ago, when his grace lay faint and wounded on that stricken field of battle, he had fallen a prey to a pair of those human jackals who scour the battle-ground to strip the living and the dead. The young Duke had sought gallantly enough, considering his condition, to defend himself from their depredations, whereupon, whilst one of them held him down, the other had bared a knife to make an end of his rash resistance. And then out of the surrounding gloom had sprung young Holles, brought to that spot by merest chance. His heavy cut-and-thrust blade had opened the skull of the villain who wielded the knife, whereupon his fellow had incontinently fled. Thereafter, half supporting, half carrying the lovely wounded boy whom he had rescued, the young Cromwellian officer had assisted him to the safety and shelter of a royalist yeoman’s cottage. All this they both remembered, and upon this they dwelt a moment now. A table stood between them, and on that table a quart of Burgundy which the Duke had called for, that he might entertain his guest. “In my heart,” said Holles, “I always believed that we should meet again one day; which is why I have clung to this jewel. Had I known your name, I should have sought you out. As it was, I harboured the conviction that Chance would bring me across your path.” “Not Chance. Destiny,” said his grace, with quiet conviction. “Why, Destiny, if you prefer to call it so. This jewel now--it is very odd! I have clung to it through all these years, as I have said; I have clung to it through some odd shifts which the sale of it might have relieved: clung to it against the day when we should meet again, that it might serve as my credential.” He did not add that to him the oddest thing of all was that to-day, at the very moment of this meeting, he was on his way to sell the jewel, compelled to it at last by direst need. The Duke was nodding, his face thoughtful. “Destiny, you see. It was preordained. The meeting was foretold. Did I not say so?” And again Holles asked him, as he had asked before: “Foretold by whom?” This time the Duke answered him. “By whom? By the stars. They are the only true prophets, and their messages are plain to him who can read them. I suppose you never sought that lore?” Holles stared at him a moment. Then he shook his head, and smiled in a manner to imply his contempt of charlatanry. “I am a soldier, sir,” he said.