He was quite calm, and about
his face there was the rain-washed look the boy had seen on his mother's
as she came out of the room where Uncle Jacko lay dead.
"You were right, Mr. Carvell," he said quietly. "Forgive me."
"Caryll, my lord," ventured the lad--"Kit Caryll."
Nelson's eye leapt.
"Kit Caryll!" he cried. "Kit Caryll! Kit Caryll!" He held the boy's hand,
and a beautiful smile broke all about his face. "Have I been blind?
You're your father over again."
He dwelt on the boy's face, flooding it with tenderness.
"D'you know," he continued quietly, "d'you know you come to me as a
friend risen from the dead?--a friend of my best days, come back to
remind me of the years--the happy years--before ... I won the Nile."
Kit heard him, amazed.
He was not happy, then, this man who had won all the world has to give!
He looked _back_ for his best days.
They were not now: they were the days before fame had come; fame, the
Betrayer, that like a roaring breaker lifts a man heavenwards, and before
he can clutch his star, has smashed him on the beach.
The boy recalled his first indelible impression--that the hero was a
_disappointed_ man.
Disappointed of what?--he, young still, crowned with glory, queens at his
feet, nations worshipping him.
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