"And now," cried M. Radisson, lifting a stirrup-cup of home-brewed October, "health to the little gentleman who saved a life to-day! Health to mine host! And a cup fathoms deep to his luck when Ramsay sails yon sea!"
"He might do worse," said Eli Kirke grimly.
And the words come back like the echo of a prophecy.
I would have escaped my uncle, but he waylaid me in the dark at the foot of the stairs.
"Ramsay," said he gently.
"Sir?" said I, wondering if flint could melt.
"'The Lord bless thee, and keep thee: the Lord make his face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee: the Lord lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace!'"