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There once was a fortress named Gib, Whose manners were haughty and glib! If you tried to get in, She replied, with a grin, ‘I’m Great Britain’s impregnable rib!’ |
Rather neat! Don’t you think?”
“O Mr. Grey!” Blythe cried. “You’ve got to write that in my voyage-book! It’s the––”
At that moment, a gesture from her companion caused her to turn and look behind her. There, only a few feet from where they were standing, but with his back to them, was the Count, sitting on one of the long, stationary benches fastened 50 against the hatchway, while just at his knees stood little Cecilia. She was balancing herself with some difficulty on the gently swaying deck, holding out for his acceptance a small bunch of violets, which one of the market-women at Gibraltar had bestowed upon her.
As he appeared to hesitate: “Prendili!” she cried, with pretty wilfulness. Upon which he took the little offering, and lifted it to his face.
The child stood her ground resolutely, and presently, “Put me up!” she commanded, still in her own sweet tongue.
Obediently he lifted her, and placed her beside him on the seat, where she sat clinging with one little hand to the sleeve of his coat to keep from slipping down, with the gentle dip of the vessel.
The two sat, for a few minutes, quite silent, gazing off toward the African coast, and Blythe and her companion drew nearer, filled with curiosity as to the outcome of the interview.
Presently the child looked up into the Count’s face and inquired, with the pretty 51 Tuscan accent which sounded like an echo of his own question on the evening of the dance:
“What is thy name?”