went wandering about amongst the pines. An old woman brought some plates
and bottles and laid them casually on a table; and we sat round the
figure of old Captain Pearse without a word, as if we were all under a
spell.

Before lunch there was a little scene between Zachary Pearse and Dan,
as to which of them should summon Pasiance. It ended in both going, and
coming back without her. She did not want any lunch, would stay where
she was amongst the pines.

For lunch we had chops, wood-pigeons, mushrooms, and mulberry preserve,
and drank wonderful Madeira out of common wine-glasses. I asked the old
man where he got it; he gave me a queer look, and answered with a little
bow:

"Stood me in tu shillin' the bottle, an' the country got nothing out of
it, sir. In the early Thirties; tu shillin' the bottle; there's no such
wine nowadays and," he added, looking at Zachary, "no such men."

Zachary smiled and said: "You did nothing so big, dad, as what I'm
after, now!"

The old man's eyes had a sort of disdain in them.

"You're going far, then, in the Pied Witch, Zack?"

"I am," said Zachary.

"And where might yu be goin' in that old trampin' smut factory?"

"Morocco."

"Heu!" said the old man, "there's nothing there; I know that coast, as
I know the back o' my hand." He stretched out a hand covered with veins
and hair.

Zachary began suddenly to pour out a flood of words:

"Below Mogador--a fellow there--friend of mine--two years ago
now. Concessions--trade-gunpowder--cruisers--feuds--money--
chiefs--Gatling guns--Sultan--rifles--rebellion--gold." He
detailed a reckless, sordid, bold scheme, which, on the pivot of
a trading venture, was intended to spin a whole wheel of political
convulsions.

"They'll never let you get there," said old Pearse.

"Won't they?" returned Zachary. "Oh yes, they will, an' when I leave,
there'll be another dynasty, and I'll be a rich man."

"Yu'll never leave," answered the old man.

Zachary took out a sheet of paper covered with figures. He had
worked the whole thing out. So much--equipment, so much--trade, so
much--concessions, so much--emergencies. "My last mag!" he ended, "a
thousand short; the ship's ready, and if I'm not there within a month my
chance is as good as gone."

This was the pith of his confidences--an appeal for money, and we all
looked as men will when that crops up.

"Mad!" muttered the old man, looking at the sea.

"No," said Zachary. That one word was m