Why, then, was he here? That question he would answer
with another: Where else was he to go? Neither backward nor forward
could he move, it seemed.
He was degenerating visibly, under the eyes of all. He had entirely
lost the almost foppish concern for his appearance, and was grown
careless and slovenly in his dress. He allowed a black beard to
grow on cheeks that had ever been so carefully shaven; and the long,
thick black hair, once so sedulously curled, hung now in a lank,
untidy mane about a face that was changing from its vigorous
swarthiness to an unhealthy sallow, whilst the blue eyes, that had
been so vivid and compelling, were now dull and lacklustre.
Wolverstone, the only one who held the clue to this degeneration,
ventured once - and once only - to beard him frankly about it.
"Lord, Peter! Is there never to be no end to this?" the giant had
growled. "Will you spend your days moping and swilling 'cause a
white-faced ninny in Port Royal'll have none o' ye? 'Sblood and
'ounds! If ye wants the wench, why the plague doesn't ye go and
fetch her?"
The blue eyes glared at him from under the jet-black eyebrows,
and something of their old fire began to kindle in them.
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