"I like a bit of a bobble myself, sir," answered Kit.
"Calls himself a sailor!" sneered the other, and collapsed again.
IV
The frigate was drawing near, the lily flag of a Vice-Admiral of the
White at her foretop-gallant mast-head.
A tide of delicious tears surged up in the lad's heart as he beheld her. She was England; she was his own. He possessed her, and was she not beautiful?
Stately lady, she walked the waters, swaying them, her breasts splendid in the sunshine. Her head was in the heavens, a stir of snow at her feet. She was mistress of the seas, and mother of them. And with what noble mirth she lorded it in this her nursery! The turbulent little folks swarmed to clutch her skirts as she swept by. She moved among them, their play-fellow and yet their sovereign lady: here a mocking bow, there a laughing curtsey; anon a stoop, a swift kiss, and she rose, an armful of blossom-babies smothering her.
The boy's heart went out to her in a passion of worship.
She was a tall Princess, stone-blind and beautiful, walking to her doom; and he a boy-knight bucketing across the moor on his pony to save her and the burthen she bore so preciously in her arms—her little son.
And he would save her. Nay, he had saved her.
He was so proud he could have shouted; he was so moved he could almost have wept.