The three friends spoke not a word for nearly five minutes.
Zachariah was never suddenly equal to any occasion which made any
great demands upon him. It often made him miserable that it was so.
Here he was, in the presence of one whom he had so much loved, and
who was about to leave him for ever, and he had nothing to say. That
could have been endured could he but have FELT and showed his
feeling, could he but have cast himself upon his neck and wept over
him, but he was numbed and apparently immovable. It was Caillaud who
first broke the silence.
"It appears I shall have to console you rather than you me; believe
me, I care no more about dying, as mere dying, than I do about
walking across this room. There are two things which disturb me--the
apprehension of some pain, and bidding good-bye to Pauline and you,
and two or three more."
There was, after all, but just a touch needed to break up Zachariah
and melt him.
"You are happier than I," he cried. "Your work is at an end. No
more care for things done or undone; you are discharged, and nobly
discharged, with honour. But as for me!"
"With honour!" and Caillaud smiled. "To be hung like a forger of
bank-notes--not even to be shot--and then to be forgotten.
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