So we showed him the trick of the table—which afforded him infinite delight—and then let him go his own way, to discover and speculate to his heart’s content. Ere it was sundown, he had a great book full of notes, and his voice was trembling with pleasure as he told over his hoard.
Then Mansel took him apart and did the delicate business of making him rich. I do not know what he said or how he said it, but, when it was over, the poor old fellow was quite unable to speak, and, though he shook hands with us all a number of times, and though George and I went with him as far as the porch, he never once opened his mouth, until the wicket stood open and he was about to step out.
Then—
“Sirs,” he said shakily, “to some friendships there is no farewells.”
Then he clapped his hat on his head and went his way.
We watched him pass up the spur, but, though we stood ready to wave, he never looked back, and at last the wood swallowed him up and we saw him no more.
When the dusk came in, George, with Bell and Rowley, went off with Punter and Bunch, to take them to Innsbruck, purchase their tickets for London and see them go.
The latter gave no trouble, comported themselves most humbly and touched their hats to their warders, if ever they spoke. Such piety suggested that their recent bodily affliction had chastened their souls; but Rowley, who was watching to see that they took the train, reported that, when they did so, Punter was burdened with a suitcase and Bunch with a dressing-bag, and, since, when they left the car, they had had no luggage and neither had upon him the price of a glass of beer, I fear that they were incorrigible and that honesty was, so to speak, beyond their element.
George was not to return to the castle, but to meet us at midnight at a point between Lass and Villach, some twenty miles from the hog’s back from which we had scanned the country a month before. So, when we had dined and the terrier had had his supper, Carson and Tester and I went the rounds for the last time.
No sign of our occupation was anywhere to be seen.
The damage we had done in the antechamber had been repaired, the bullet-holes in the Dining-room had been stopped and such window-glass as was broken had been replaced. The rooms had all been cleaned, the floors shone like glass, the beds had been stripped: the caretakers had such linen as had been used, and this the woman would wash and return to store: what rubbish and litter there was had been taken the night before and sunk in a river we knew of ten miles away.
When we had finished our inspection and found all well, I sent Carson down, with Tester, to finish loading the Rolls, and walked by myself on the roof for half an hour.
The night was lovely, and, though was in, the air was as still and gentle as that of a summer’s eve. A fine moon was riding a cloudless sky and shedding enough pale light to lend the towers and bulwarks a fanciful air and all the world I could see the look of a fairytale.
I do not believe in Enchantment: but, if there be such a thing, it stood at my shoulder that evening upon the ramparts of Gath. Castle, spur and thicket, mountains and forests and the flash of the water below seemed all “such stuff as dreams are made on,” and I could not shake off the feeling that we were about to quit a fantastic country which, search for it as we might, we never should see again.
When it was ten o’clock, I made my way to the courtyard. There all was in order: what luggage we had was in place, and the rugs and cushions for Mansel were piled in the back of the car.
Then I went to the terrace, as they had asked me to do, to tell Adèle and Mansel that it was time to be gone.
They had left the chairs, set for them, and were standing together up to the balustrade: his arm was about her, and her head was against his shoulder, and the two threw a single shadow upon the flags.
For a moment I stood, irresolute, at the head of the steps. Then I went heavily down. …
They did not turn at my coming. Only Adèle stretched out a little hand.
I came and stood beside her, and her arm went about my shoulders and held me close.
So we stood, all three together, looking unto the hills. …
Mansel was speaking.
“The very elements respect you,” he said. “Was ever a night so lovely, to round a dream?”
“Our dream,” breathed Adèle. “Our beautiful, shining dream. You gave it us, darling. By keeping my letters, you gave it. And your strength has been its glory, your gentleness its life.”
“You wrote the letters,” said Mansel. “Because of that, I loved them so very much. I never thought I should burn them. … But then I never thought that, in their place you would give me something—something that won’t go into words, Adèle, that all the ages must envy me, and that no thieves can steal.”
Adèle’s arm left my shoulders and came to rest upon his.
“Oh, Jonah—my love, my darling.”
Mansel held her close, looking down on her upturned face.
“I love you,” he said. “I love the stars in your eyes and the breath of your lips. I love your hair and your temples and the pride of your exquisite mouth. I love all your peerless beauty. But, most of
