I won't speak roughly to him," I answered. "I see."

I did see. At first I had been suspicious; it might have been put on
to mollify me. But one could not put on that blueness of tinge, that
extra--nearly final--touch of the chisel to the lines round the nose,
that air of restfulness that nothing any more could very much disturb.
There was no doubt that Carlos was dying.

"Treacheries--no. You had to come," he said suddenly. "I need you. I am
glad, dear Juan." He waved a thin long hand a little towards mine. "You
shall not long be angry. It had to be done--you must forgive the means."

His air was so gay, so uncomplaining, that it was hard to believe it
came from him.

"You could not have acted worse if you had owed me a grudge, Carlos," I
said. "I want an explanation. But I don't want to kill you. . . ."

"Oh, no, oh, no," he said; "in a minute I will tell."

He dropped a gold ball into a silver basin that was by the bedside,
and it sounded like a great bell. A nun in a sort of coif that took the
lines of a buffalo's horns glided to him with a gold cup, from which he
drank, raising himself a little. Then the religious went out with Tomas
Castro, who gave me a last ferocious glower from his yellow eyes. Carlos
smiled.

"They try to make my going easy," he said. "_Vamos!_ The pillow is
smooth for him who is well loved." He shut his eyes. Suddenly he said,
"Why do you, alone, hate me, John Kemp? What have I done?"

"God knows I don't hate you, Carlos," I answered.

"You have always mistrusted me," he said. "And yet I am, perhaps, nearer
to you than many of your countrymen, and I have always wished you well,
and you have always hated and mistrusted me. From the very first you
mistrusted me. Why?"

It was useless denying it; he had the extraordinary incredulity of his
kind. I remembered how I had idolized him as a boy at home.

"Your brother-in-law, my cousin Rooksby, was the very first to believe
that I was a pirate. I, a vulgar pirate! I, Carlos Riego! Did he not
believe it--and you?" He glanced a little ironically, and lifted a thin
white finger towards the great coat-of-arms. "That sort of thing," he
said, "_amigo mio_, does not allow one to pick pockets." He suddenly
turned a little to one side, and fixed me with his clear eyes. "My
friend," he said, "if I told you that Rooksby and your greatest Kent
earls carried smugglers' tubs, you would say I was an ignorant fool.
Yet they, too, are magistrates. The on