The man whom ancient friendship had brought that way stopped short in
his pacing to gaze upon the figure standing in the light of the high
window. For what could such an one want money? Courtier, no more
forever; patron of letters, friend of wise men, no more forever; soldier
and sea-king, comrade and leader of brave men never, never again,--what
wanted he so much, what other was his imperative need than this old,
quiet house sunk in the shadows of its age-old trees, grave with a
certain solemnity, touched upon with tragedy, attuned to a sorrowful
patience? For a moment the room and the man who made its core were
blurred to Arden's vision. He walked to the window and stood there,
twirling his mustachios, finally humming to himself the lines of a song.

"That is Sidney's," said Ferne, quietly. "I hear that he does the Queen
noble service.... Well, even in the old times he was ever a length
before me!"

"Why do you need money?" demanded the visitor. "What more retired--what
better house than this?"

The man who leaned against the chimney-piece turned to gaze at his
visitor with that which had not before showed in mien or words. It was
wonder, slight and mournful, yet wonder. "Of course you also would think
that," he said at last. "Even Robin thinks that the stained blade should
rust in its scabbard,--that here I should await my time, training the
rose-bushes in my garden, listening to the sere leaves fall, singing of
other men's harvests."

The boy cried out: "I don't, I don't! You've promised to take me with
you!" and flung himself down upon the pavement, with his head beside his
master's knee.