"You are silent," she said. "Do you know something about my father
of which I am ignorant? Is that it?"
"No," he answered, "I am trying to follow--that is all. You leave
so much to my imagination."
"But I have no time to explain things," she protested. "Every
moment is of value. I will explain all those things some other
time. At this moment all I can think of is my father and the danger
he is in. If it had not been for Barlasch, he would have been in
prison by now. And as it is, the danger is only half averted. For
he, himself, is so little help. All must be done for him. He will
do nothing for himself while this humour is upon him; you
understand?"
"Partly," he answered slowly.
"Oh!" she exclaimed half-impatiently, "one sees that you are an
Englishman."
And she found time, even in her hurry, to laugh. For she was young
enough to float buoyant upon that sea of hope which ebbs in the
course of years and leaves men stranded on the hard facts of life.
"You forget," he said in self-defence.
"I forget what?"
"That a week ago I had never seen Dantzig, or your father, or your
sister, or the Frauengasse. A week ago I did not know that there
was anybody called Sebastian in the world--and did not care."
"Yes," she admitted thoughtfully, "I had forgotten that."
And they walked on in silence, a long way, till they came to the
Gate of the Holy Ghost.
"But you can help him to escape?" she said at length, as if
following the course of her own thoughts.
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