“Would you please ask if he’s there, and if he’d come for a turn with me. I don’t think I’ll go in.” Leighton opened the door. They saw a little room, blue with tobacco-smoke. Flanking the fire were deep settles hiding all but the legs of the men who lounged in them. Between the settles stood a table, covered with mugs and glasses. The scene was picturesque—fairer than the cutglass palaces of the town. “Oh yes, he’s there,” he called, and after a moment’s hesitation came out. “Would he come?” “No. I shouldn’t say so,” replied Leighton, with a furtive glance. He knew that Rickie was a milksop. “First night, you know, sir, among old friends.” “Yes, I know,” said Rickie. “But he might like a turn down the village. It looks stuffy inside there, and poor fun probably to watch others drinking.” Leighton shut the door. “What was that he called after you?” “Oh, nothing. A man when he’s drunk—he says the worst he’s ever heard. At least, so they say.” “A man when he’s drunk?” “Yes, Sir.” “But Stephen isn’t drinking?” “No, no.” “He couldn’t be. If he broke a promise—I don’t pretend he’s a saint. I don’t want him one. But it isn’t in him to break a promise.” “Yes, sir; I understand.” “In the train he promised me not to drink—nothing theatrical: just a promise for these few days.” “No, sir.” “‘No, sir,’” stamped Rickie. “‘Yes! no! yes!’ Can’t you speak out? Is he drunk or isn’t he?” Leighton, justly exasperated, cried, “He can’t stand, and I’ve told you so again and again.” “Stephen!” shouted Rickie, darting up the steps. Heat and the smell of beer awaited him, and he spoke more furiously than he had intended. “Is there any one here who’s sober?” he cried. The landlord looked over the bar angrily, and asked him what he meant. He pointed to the deep settles. “Inside there he’s drunk. Tell him he’s broken his word, and I will not go with him to the Rings.” “Very well. You won’t go with him to the Rings,” said the landlord, stepping forward and slamming the door in his face. In the room he was only angry, but out in the cool air he remembered that Stephen was a law to himself. He had chosen to break his word, and would break it again. Nothing else bound him. To yield to temptation is not fatal for most of us. But it was the end of everything for a hero. “He’s suddenly ruined!” he cried, not yet remembering himself. For a little he stood by the elm-tree, clutching the ridges of its bark. Even so would he wrestle tomorrow, and Stephen, imperturbable, reply, “My body is my own.” Or worse still, he might wrestle with a pliant Stephen who promised him glibly again. While he prayed for a miracle to convert his brother, it struck him that he must pray for himself. For he, too, was ruined.