"I do not even ask you to go on with your projected marriage." He continued, "A son-in-law," his thumb crept along a tiny silver scroll, "whose brother is--disaffected--whose father--will be bankrupt--would hardly fit with my plans. All I ask is--seven days forgotten. Completely. Your word on it. Then you're free." "Why?" said Andrew, bluntly. "Why not hang me out of hand at once?" "Oh--call it a whim--a vagary," said the Doctor with masked eyes, "I've always rather loved fools--after my own fashion. And then--I'll be frank enough--trying you in Augustine would be such a tedious business--I could carry it through--don't mistake me--but there might be embarrassing questions. I'd rather have your word." "Suppose I broke my word?" "To be frank," said the Doctor, "I do not care very greatly what you do--out of the Floridas. Till then--you would sign a--confession--I have drawn up. You could have it back--in time." "Confession of what?" said Andrew. "Oh--not too much," said the Doctor, pursing his lips. "Disloyalty, chiefly--an attempt on my daughter's honor, perhaps--just enough to discredit you. I assure you I should use it with the greatest reluctance," and, strangely enough, Andrew thought that he spoke the truth. "Sebastian and Caterina?" he said. The Doctor pondered. "You can have the girl," he said finally. "I should regret it, but after all--Mrs. Gentian deserves consideration. The man, no. I must keep discipline. But I might merely send him to St. Augustine prison, then." "What happens to him otherwise?" said Andrew, breathing. "The currycomb," said the Doctor in a wisp of voice. "A distressing end." Andrew looked at him. "I should really advise against it," said the Doctor very softly, with his forefinger alert. "You could not possibly reach me in time. Besides, there are always the soldiers." Andrew drew a long breath. "And--I--?" he said. "Oh, you would merely hang," said the Doctor, recovering his cheerfulness. "Merely hang. You're young to hang, Andrew." Andrew passed his hand over his eyes, trying to think. He could save Sebastian's life, Caterina's, his own. Sebastian was patient and clever--even in the dungeons of St. Augustine he might find some way of escape. Then they would all be saved. The other way was death. He could refuse for himself, and die, but he would not have to die in torment as Sebastian must. For an instant he saw himself free, at the rail of a ship, with Caterina at his side. Her hand was lightly on his, she was telling him he had done well, her eyes were gentle. Cool as the fronds of lilies floating on a hushed and evening pool, her fingers touched his, and met, and somewhere, Sebastian was smiling at them both from his dungeon...