His face was a thought paler than before; his eyes a shade darker. He was bracing himself for a last fight. Something about the boy, his twilight voice, his pallor, those dark and hunted eyes, struck Nelson. He stopped his pacing. "You've nothing to fear, Mr. Carvell," he said less sternly--"if your story prove true." "It is true, my lord," replied the boy steadfastly. "God forbid," shuddered the great seaman, and resumed his walk. II There was a knock. Dark entered, sombrely magnificent. He stood by the door, splendid with that strange splendour of moonlight. His head, massive as a mountain, was splashed with silver; and from under great and gloomy brows those vast eyes gleamed, unfathomable. Over by the port stood Nelson, high and white. "Mr. Dark," he began in chill and formal voice, "I've sent for you upon the most unpleasant business it's ever been my lot to be mixed up in. Had I only to consider myself, what I have to say would be left unsaid. But I have to think of other and larger issues. If a mischance England might be lost." The other listened immovable. He was like a smouldering volcano. Every moment Kit expected to see flames leap from his eyes. Nelson cleared his throat, and continued. "This young gentleman, Mr. Carvell, has been telling me a strange and terrible tale that affects you." He turned his eye full-blaze upon the other. "It is this, Mr. Dark--that you have been paid to sell me to the French." The giant was stone. Not a muscle twitched. Then the tip of his tongue journeyed round his lips. The lips moved. Kit read the words on them, though no sound came. They were, "_Not paid_." Nelson waited, breathing deep. Receiving no answer, he went on, "The story so far as I can make it out is this." Calm and twanging, he stood by the port-hole, and outlined to his alleged murderer-to-be the story of his plot. That mighty man could have crumpled him in one hand, and tossed him through the port-hole. And the giant knew it--so much his eyes betrayed. And the boy, watching from his corner, knew it too. Only the little lopped man talking through his nose across the cabin seemed unaware of it. The shrill voice ceased. There was silence in the cabin. "That's the story, Mr. Dark. And I may say I don't believe _one_ word of it." "Thank you, my lord," came the other's voice, deep and rumbling. "And if you'll give me your word that it's all moonshine," continued Nelson, "why, I'll ask you to shake my hand and forgive me. And that's an end of the dirtiest bit of business I ever had to handle." The other's voice stuck in his throat. Out it came at last like muffled drums. "My lord, you're a gentleman." Nelson came to him with outstretched hand and a wonderful smile. "Forgive me," he said. The darkness drifted from the saint's face, leaving behind it evening calm, the stars beginning to shine. Folding his arms, he bowed deliberately.