In a few days, however, Kophetua found out the difference between an attendant and a companion. As the former Captain Pertinax was complete; as the latter, entirely without value. It was well enough while they were out on the mountains, and could talk of sport or jest together over their rude meals; but when the night spread its pall of sadness and gloom over the world, Kophetua's mind was full of other things, of which he longed to speak. Once or twice he even attempted such conversation with Captain Pertinax, but the poor fellow stared at him with such a look of worried wonder that Kophetua soon desisted from his efforts.
This evening they were dining in a commonplace way in the castle, and Captain Pertinax was more than ever unsatisfactory. Kophetua's meeting with Penelophon had seriously unsettled the comparative equanimity at which he had arrived, and he found it quite impossible to be interested in the soldier's conversation. So, as soon as the meal was over, he dismissed him, and sat looking out from his window over the fertile valley below. Far away it stretched, a broad, checkered expanse of cultivation, till it reached to the fantastic shapes of the mountain wall which shielded it from the Sahara. He watched the sunset glowing on its tanks and water-courses, and thought how often he had sat there with Turbo, talking over schemes for improving its irrigation. The past glowed in pleasant radiance through the veil of years, and made the present the more glaring and hideous. Do what he would, he could not keep from his mind the bright little sparks which, in the last few months, had seemed to be kindling his life. Untimely the glow had been smothered; and now it seemed as though, instead of the living fire, a smouldering smoke were rising up and spreading a black and stifling vapour over his gloomy life. As one that is suffocating, he strained unconsciously after a purer air. Again and again, in sighs that grew ever sweeter, the balmy fragrance he desired was wafted to his poisoned senses, and whence it was he could not choose but know.
Down from the turret-chamber overhead it came--down from the room where lay the beggar-maid locked up all alone. It was useless to try and forget her. In the corner of the room was the little door which opened on to the turret stair; at his elbow hung the key which made her his. His solitude grew insupportable, and he began to cheat himself with reasons why he should visit his prisoner. He fell to wondering what was to be done with her. He told himself it was only half doing his work to bring her there and not try to find out how she got into trouble. Unless he knew that, there was little chance of getting her out of it. At any rate, it would only be kind to go and ask her what she would like him to do with her, and learn how he could get her back to her friends, the players.