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Updated: June 25, 2025
Its replica was carried to a castle in Scotland. It had been the gift of Diana Welldon on a certain day not long ago, when Flood Rawley had made a pledge to her, which was as vital to him and to his future as two thousand dollars were vital to Dan Welldon now.
Loose me from the mast, and let the storm and wave wash me out into the sea of your forgetfulness now or never!... But keep me, keep me, if your love is great enough, if I bring you any light or joy; for I am yours to my uttermost note of life." "He knew! he knew!" Rawley said, catching her wrists in his hands and drawing her to him.
"She'll be rich when I've done with it. You're a lucky man ay, you're lucky." Rawley was about to tell the old man what the two thousand dollars was for, but a fresh wave of repugnance passed over him, and, hastily drinking another dipperful of water, he opened the door. He looked back. The old man was crouching forward, lapping milk from the great bowl, his beard dripping.
Rawley, his chaplain, says, and it is a marvellous illustration of Bacon's diligence and desire for perfection, "I myself have seen, at the least, twelve copies of the 'Instauration, revised year by year, one after another, and every year altered and amended in the frame thereof."
The evil eyes gloated, the long fingers clutched the pile and swept it into a great inside pocket. Then the shaggy head bent forward. "You said it was for Dan," he said "Dan Welldon?" Rawley hesitated. "What is that to you?" he replied, at last. With a sudden impulse the old impostor lurched round, opened a box, drew out a roll, and threw it on the table.
Rawley had trusted to the inspiration of the moment; he had had no clearly defined plan; he had believed that he could frighten the old man, and by force of will bend him to his purposes. It had all been more difficult than he had expected. He kept cool, imperturbable, and determined, however.
Did this Caliban have some understanding of what was at stake in his heart and soul? "Play!" Rawley said sharply, and was himself again. For hour after hour there was scarce a sound, save the rattle of the dice and an occasional exclamation from the old man as he threw a double-six. As dusk fell, the door had been shut, and a lighted lantern was hung over their heads. Fortune had fluctuated.
The voice was fluttered, almost whining; it carried no conviction; but the words had in them a reminder of words that Rawley himself had said to Diana Welldon but a few months ago, and a new spirit stirred in him. He stepped forwards and, gripping Dan's shoulder with a hand of steel, said fiercely: "No, Dan. I'd rather take you to her in your coffin.
Of course she would, and of course you ought to be ashamed of yourself for thinking of it." Rawley lighted his cigar and smoked fiercely. "It would be better for her than my going to jail," stubbornly replied the other. "But I don't want to tell her, or to ask her for money. That's why I've come to you. You needn't be so hard, Flood; you've not been a saint; and Di knows it."
The evil eyes gloated, the long fingers clutched the pile, and swept it into a great inside pocket. Then the shaggy head bent forwards. "You said it was for Dan," he said "Dan Welldon?" Rawley hesitated. "What is that to you?" he replied at last. With a sudden impulse the old impostor lurched round, opened a box, drew out a roll, and threw it on the table.
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