A hearty renewal of his daughter’s laughter was the only reply; while Power relieved his anxiety by saying,—
“No, no, Pedrillo, not the French; a mere marauding party,—nothing more. I say, Charley,” continued he, in a lower tone, “you had better lose no time in reporting yourself at headquarters. We’ll walk up together. Devilish awkward scrape, yours.”
“Never fear, Fred; time enough for all that. For the present, if you permit me, I’ll follow up my acquaintance with our fair friend here.”
“Gently, gently!” said he, with a look of most imposing seriousness. “Don’t mistake her; she’s not a mere country girl: you understand?—been bred in a convent here,—rather superior kind of thing.”
“Come, come, Fred, I’m not the man to interfere with you for a moment.”
“Good-night, Senhor,” said the old miller, who had been waiting patiently all this time to pay his respects before going.
“Yes, that’s it!” cried Power, eagerly. “Good-night, Pedrillo.”
“Buonos noches,” lisped out Margeritta, with a slight curtsy.
I sprang forward to acknowledge her salutation, when Power coolly interposed between us, and closing the door after them, placed his back against it.
“Master Charley, I must read you a lesson—”