"Humph! the marvel is that you ever got nearer to the plantations than Tyburn. Your name is—" "Godfrey Landless." "Landless! Once I knew—and loved—a Warham Landless—a brave soldier, a gallant gentleman, a true Christian. He fell at Worcester." "He was my father." The mender of nets covered his eyes with his hand. "O Lord! how wonderful are thy ways!" he said beneath his breath, then aloud, "Lad, lad, I cannot wholly sorrow to see you here. Wise in counsel, bold in action, patient, farseeing, brave, was thy father, and I think thou hast his spirit. Thou hast his eyes, now that I look at thee more closely. I have prayed for such a man." "I am glad you knew my father," said Landless simply. After a long silence, in which the minds of both had gone back to other days, the mender of nets spoke gravely. "You have no cause to love the present government?" "No," said Landless grimly. "You were heart and hand for the Commonwealth?" "Yes." "You mean to escape from this bondage?" "Yes." The mender of nets took from his bosom a little worn book. "Will you swear upon this that you will never reveal what I am about to say to you, save to such persons as I shall designate? For myself I would take your simple word, for we are both gentlemen, but other lives than mine hang in the balance." Landless touched the book with his lips. "I swear," he said. The man brought his serene, white face nearer. "What would you have given," he asked solemnly, "for the cause for which your father died?" "My life," said Landless. "Would you give it still?" "A worthless gift," said Landless bitterly. "Yea, I would give it, but the cause is dead." The other shook his head. "The cause of the just man dieth not." There was a pause broken by the mender of nets. "Thou art no willing slave, I trow. The thought of escape is ever with thee." "I shall escape," said Landless deliberately. "And if they track me they shall not take me alive." The mender of nets gave a melancholy smile. "They would track you, never fear!" He leaned forward and touched Landless with his hand. "What if I show you a better way?" he asked in a whisper. "What way?" "A way to recover your liberty, and with it, the liberty of downtrodden brethren. A way to raise the banner of the Commonwealth and to put down the Stuart." Landless stared. "A miserable hut," he said, "in the midst of a desolate Virginia marsh, and within it, a brace of slaves, the one a cripple, the other a convict,—and Charles Stuart on his throne in Whitehall! Friend, this dismal place hath turned your wits!" The other smiled. "My wits are sound," he said, "as sound as they were upon that day when I gave my voice for the death (a sad necessity!) of this young man’s father. And I do not think to shake England,—I speak of Virginia." "Of Virginia!"