going back to life, or--or--Did he wish to return so soon? He wondered
what Mila was doing. Then he went into the stone corridor and coughed as
a hint that he was up. Not a sound but the persistent fall at a distance
of some heavy metallic substance. It must be Karospina in his workshop,
at his rockets, pinwheels, torpedoes, and firecrackers. What a singular
change in a bloodthirsty revolutionist. And how childish! Had he
squandered his millions on futile experimentings? What his object, what
his scheme, for the amelioration of mankind's woes? Gerald's stomach
warned him that coffee and rolls were far dearer to him than the
downfall of tyranny's bastions, and impatiently he began whistling. The
rhythmic thud never ceased. He noticed an open door at the back of the
house, and he went out, his long legs carrying him about the yard,
toward the beach. The air was glorious, a soft breeze blowing landward
from the ocean. He almost forgot his hunger in the face of such a
spectacle. The breakers were racing in, and after crumbling, they
scudded, a film of green, crested by cottony white, across the hard sand
to the young man's feet. He felt exhilarated. And his hunger returned.
Then Mila's voice sounded near him. She carried a basket and fairly ran
in her eagerness.

"Mr. Shannon, Mr. Shannon, good Prince Gerald--" he was amazed; where
could she have heard his Christian name?--"your breakfast. Wait--don't
swim the seas to New York for it. Here it is." She opened the basket and
handed him a jug of coffee and showed him the rolls inside. Without the
slightest embarrassment he thanked her and drank his coffee, walking; he
ate the bread, and felt, as he expressed it, like leading a forlorn
hope. They went on, the cutting sunshine and sparkling breeze alluring
them to vague distances. It was long after midday when they marched back
at a slower pace, Gerald swinging the basket like a light-hearted boy,
instead of the desperado he fancied himself.