All at once he recollected the fact that McClintock's copra plantation was down that way, somewhere in the South Seas; had an island of his own. The knight and his followers crossed the threshold, leaving one of the torch-bearers behind them. He was a thin old man, a wreck in a ruined body, but nothing would induce him to stand in any other way than as stiffly erect as possible like the soldier he had always been, even though he was obliged to lean on his silver-handled cane to do so. I don’t think they do matter. But, egad! I believe he will.
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