"I shall go North," said Andrew. "Perhaps to help the ass you spoke of kick off his rider--yes." It was the first time he had definitely put the thought at the back of his mind into words. He was astonished to find how rational it sounded. "After all--as long as they've called me a traitor--" he said, musingly. He wondered if that were really what he would do. It was difficult to see himself with a ragamuffin musket, presenting it at Lion and Unicorn. Sebastian nodded. "I thought so," he said. "There are three things one cannot run away from--war, love and death." His voice held that indolent fatalism that has so often deceived the North by its languid pride. "Sometime I should like to go back to Minorca," he confessed. His eyes glittered. "This is a good country, here, but it is not Fererias." "Tell me about your island," said Andrew, childishly. He settled himself in a corner to listen. "You'd laugh at it, if you went there," said Sebastian. "It is small and harsh and poor. But the people are friendly there. My uncle lives in Mahon, if he has not died--he is a very friendly and hospitable person. My aunt has copper pans in her kitchen," he continued, with some pride. "They tease her about being rich--she is not--they came from her father who was a copper-smith--but few of us have copper vessels, even in the town--" His voice droned on, lulling Andrew into the content of a sleepy child. It was now almost entirely dark in their cell, though outside the sun had not yet set. There would be hours still before they would be safe in cutting through the rest of the bar, but now Andrew did not care how many there were. The fear of death no longer ran about with the rats in the darkness and he was quite happy listening to the slow story of certain doings in the family of a foreign copper-smith which could not possibly interest any person of gentility. 7. Dr. Gentian laid his book down with a sigh, and glanced at his watch. He rose, and stood for a moment, observing how surely and skilfully the petal of a flower grew in rose-colored silk upon gauze, under the deft, shining strokes of his wife's embroidery needle. "That must tire your eyes, my dear--especially at night," he said, with solicitude. "I am never tired." She did not turn her head to answer. "Are you going now?" "Yes, my dear. I am going now. You need not wait up for me. I shall not be back till late." She made a knot in the silk. "You never believe me," she said. "Even if I told you, you were walking into a pitfall--you wouldn't believe me." He smiled, "I should merely think your natural concern for my safety had overbalanced your excellent reason," he said. "No doubt," she said wearily, her face still averted. "Well--you can go, then. I shan't wait up." "It matters to you still," he said, consideringly. "That seems strange." "Strange enough." Her eyes were fixed on her work. "You'd be a clever man, Hilary, if you left well enough alone."