But Brion did not at once obey. Pride and emotion fought within him for mastery; his breast heaved; a moisture had sprung to his eyes. Suddenly, with an impulsive movement, he lifted the other’s unresisting hand, and kissed it once gently, and gently put it from him. Then he turned, and went hurriedly to the door, and beckoned to the Captain, who stood with his men in the hall. The soldier strode to the summons. ‘Granton,’ said his lord, without turning his head, ‘restore this youth his sword, and let him free. He is my friend, Granton.’ And so it was that Brion, a man escaped from a deadly hazard, yet keeping for ever in his mind the picture of that tragic hour, the gloomy building and the room set like a lustrous shrine in its midst, found himself once more in the free and open street, an exultation at his heart, but also a wistful pain. That, in a measure, was never to leave him; yet even so it was as balsam on an ancient wound, the amelioration of one hurt by another. And, since it was so, his spirit henceforth felt a certain peace which it had never yet quite known. If he had lost something, he had gained no less in compensation. He went straight back to his inn; and surely the sun had never shone so bright to him nor the air breathed so sweet. He found Clerivault pacing the yard, restless and uneasy, and was moved to remorse hearing the enormous sigh of relief with which that good creature greeted his return. It touched his humbled vanity to the quick. He answered to it, his eyes shining:-- ‘Hast thou so felt my truancy, then?’ ‘No matter what I have felt, sir,’ was the reply, ‘since you are here again. I would be no man’s pursuing conscience, I.’ ‘You are; you were, Clerivault. The figure of you dogged my ungrateful heels.’ ‘On my honour, Sir, I have not moved from here, as you bade me.’ ‘I know it, good heart. I spoke but metaphorically. I was a thankless ingrate--for the last time, where thy love is in question, I do hope. Forgive me, Clerivault.’ ‘Forgive thee!’ The man lifted his arms and eyes to heaven as if in mute ecstatic protest. ‘Forgive my balm, my solace, my one friend? Say it again, sweetheart. I could kiss thy very shadow for that word!’ CHAPTER XXIII. HOME AGAIN Had his fears in any degree been justified? That disquieting suspicion may have just entered Clerivault’s mind, seeking for the clue to some connexion between his young master’s mental and material conditions. Something, it was evident, had torn and dishevelled that gentleman’s attire, as something had disturbed his moral equilibrium. The good fellow’s uneasiness was so great that he could not forbear significantly drawing Brion’s attention to the state of his clothes. The youngster laughed. ‘A brawl, Clerivault,’ said he. ‘I lacked my Mentor for the occasion. That is enough admitted, by your leave. Methinks, all said, I have had sufficient of London for one time, and incline to our good Devon again. What say you?’