“And does he urge no other motive than his pleasure why I should make this violent change in all my habits, why I should renounce an element that has become as necessary to me as the one I breathe and why, in particular, I am to disclaim the vaunted privilege of calling myself a Briton?”

“He does.  This statement of a force, which you may freely examine with your own eyes, if so disposed, must convince you of the hopelessness of resistance, and will, he thinks, induce you to accept his offers.”

“And what is your opinion?” the other demanded, with a meaning smile and peculiar emphasis, as he extended a hand to receive the written statement.  “But I beg pardon,” he hastily added, taking the look of gravity from the countenance of his companion “I trifle, when the moment requires all our seriousness.”

The eye of the Rover ran rapidly over the paper, resting itself, once or twice, with a slight exhibition of interest, on particular points, that seemed most to merit his attention.

“You find the superiority such as I had already given you reason to believe?” demanded Wilder, when the look of the other wandered from the paper.

“I do.”

“And may I now ask your decision on the offer?”

“First, tell me what does your own heart advise?  This is but the language of another.”

“Captain Heidegger,” said Wilder, colouring, “I will not attempt to conceal, that, had this message depended solely on myself, it might have been couched in different terms; but as one, who still deeply retains the recollection of your generosity, as a man would not willingly induce even an enemy to an act of dishonour, do I urge their acceptance.  You will excuse me, if I say, that, in my recent intercourse I have had reason to believe you already perceive that neither the character you could wish to earn, nor the content that all men crave, is to be found in your present career.”

“I had not thought I entertained so close a casuist in Mr Henry Wilder.  Have you more to urge, sir?”

“Nothing,” returned the disappointed and grieved messenger of the “Dart.”

“Yes, yes, he has,” said a low but eager voice at the elbow of the Rover, which rather seemed to breathe out the syllables than dare to utter them aloud; “he has not yet delivered the half of his commission, or sadly has he forgotten the sacred trust!”

“The boy is often a dreamer,” interrupted the Rover, smiling, with a wild and haggard look.  “He sometimes gives form to his unmeaning thoughts, by clothing them in words.”

“My thoughts are not unmeaning,” continued Roderick, in a louder and far bolder strain.  “If his peace or happiness be dear to you, do not yet leave him.  Tell him of his high and honourable name of his youth; of that gentle and virtuous being that he once so fondly loved, and whose memory, even now, he worships.  Speak to him of these, as you know how to speak; and, on my life, his ear will not be deaf, his heart cannot be callous to your words.”