I opened my hand and let the dagger drop to the floor. “I suppose that this was because of last night,” I said. “I shall never strike you again.”

I went to the table, and sitting down leaned my forehead upon my hand. It was Diccon who would have done this thing! The fire crackled on the hearth as had crackled the old camp fires in Flanders; the wind outside was the wind that had whistled through the rigging of the Treasurer, one terrible night when we lashed ourselves to the same mast and never thought to see the morning. Diccon!

Upon the table was the minister’s inkhorn and pen. I drew my tablets from the breast of my doublet and began to write. “Diccon!” I called, without turning, when I had finished.