Brion, descending to the patient, found him, a little to his surprise, shifted from the position in which he had left him the night before to one in an angle of the wall where the brazier had been formerly set. They had exchanged places, in fact. Remarking on the transposition, he was informed by the other, in that weak, precisely-measured voice of his, that, growing chill in the small hours, he had bethought himself to take advantage of the warmth reflected to the stones by the then extinguished charcoal, and had so made shift to effect the change, which he had with difficulty accomplished, lying with his body against the hot wall. That, as a stratagem, was resourceful enough: the perplexing thing to Brion was how one in so feeble a state could have put it into practice. Yet, again, that state seemed indisputable. One had only to look at the man to know he could not be malingering. They talked a little together, desultorily. The stranger was curious about the superstition which kept his hiding-place inviolate; and Brion, seeing no reason for concealment, told him all about the legend of the departed buccaneer, and the fate of the unfortunate young relative who had got to know more about his affairs than was good for his health or hers. The eyes always seemed to listen to him more than the ears: they blinked no facts, and confessed no emotions--none in the least over their owner’s contiguity to the place of that dark reputed tragedy. He was evidently ‘insusceptible,’ in the superstitious sense. ‘And was, Sir,’ he said, ‘this business of the wheel some of that Fulke’s contriving?’ ‘No,’ said Brion. ‘I understand it was here long before his time.’ ‘It is a clever contrivance, whoever designed it. I have seen some in my day, and none, I think, so well thought out. _Prudens simplicitas._’ * * * * * * Day succeeded day, and week week, and still the patient showed no signs of mending, but sat propped against the wall, with that eternal aspect of weakness and suffering which had never changed since Brion first brought him into the pit. The young fellow was at his wits’ end to know what to do. Time was flying, and at any moment he might receive his summons from Plymouth. At length he made up his mind, and laid bare the whole truth to Clerivault--enormously, as may be supposed, to that paragon’s astonishment. ‘I believe,’ said Brion, ‘the poor wretch is dying: and I cannot leave him to die there. What am I to do?’ ‘A secret chamber--in the old well-house!’ gasped Clerivault; ‘and to discover it--God’s ’slid! thou must have dared alone the haunted terrors of that place!’ ‘Yes, yes,’ said Brion impatiently--‘and a fig for such bugbears. But that is not the point. He must be brought out--brought here--put to bed--old Harlock must see him--God o’ mercy! I shall go demented!’ He started striding forth and back, his fingers wound desperately in his hair. Clerivault quieted him down:-- ‘Ah, peace, my sweetheart! We will arrange it.’