I went to the table, and sitting down leaned my forehead upon my hand. It was Diccon who would have done this thing! The fire crackled on the hearth as had crackled the old camp fires in Flanders; the wind outside was the wind that had whistled through the rigging of the Treasurer, one terrible night when we lashed ourselves to the same mast and never thought to see the morning. Diccon! Upon the table was the minister's inkhorn and pen. I drew my tablets from the breast of my doublet and began to write. “Diccon!” I called, without turning, when I had finished. He came slowly forward to the table, and stood beside it with hanging head. I tore the leaf from the book and pushed it over to him. “Take it,” I ordered. “To the commander?” he asked. “I am to take it to the commander?” I shook my head. “Read it.” He stared at it vacantly, turning it now this way, now that. “Did you forget how to read when you forgot all else?” I said sternly. He read, and the color rushed into his face. “It is your freedom,” I said. “You are no longer man of mine. Begone, sirrah!” He crumpled the paper in his hand. “I was mad,” he muttered. “I could almost believe it,” I replied. “Begone!” After a moment he went. Sitting still in my place, I heard him heavily and slowly leave the room, descend the step at the door, and go out into the night. A door opened, and Mistress Jocelyn Percy came into the great room, like a sunbeam strayed back to earth. Her skirt was of flowered satin, her bodice of rich taffeta; between the gossamer walls of her French ruff rose the whitest neck to meet the fairest face. Upon her dark hair sat, as lightly as a kiss, a little pearl-bordered cap. A color was in her cheeks and a laugh on her lips. The rosy light of the burning pine caressed her,--now dwelling on the rich dress, now on the gold chain around the slender waist, now on rounded arms, now on the white forehead below the pearls. Well, she was a fair lady for a man to lay down his life for. “I held court this afternoon!” she cried. “Where were you, sir? Madam West was here, and my Lady Temperance Yeardley, and Master Wynne, and Master Thorpe from Henricus, and Master Rolfe with his Indian brother,--who, I protest, needs but silk doublet and hose and a month at Whitehall to make him a very fine gentleman.” “If courage, steadfastness, truth, and courtesy make a gentleman,” I said, “he is one already. Such an one needs not silk doublet nor court training.” She looked at me with her bright eyes. “No,” she repeated, “such an one needs not silk doublet nor court training.” Going to the fire, she stood with one hand upon the mantelshelf, looking down into the ruddy hollows. Presently she stooped and gathered up something from the hearth. “You waste paper strangely, Captain Percy,” she said. “Here is a whole handful of torn pieces.”