It is not easy to give an idea of the haughty dignity with which he spoke the last words. They were like the declaration of one who felt himself so secure in station, that he could treat the accidents of the day as mere trifles.
“But why should the people wish it? We are not very likely to molest or injure them.”
“That much you may leave to themselves,” said the boy, insolently. “They’ll not let you do it.”
“You seem very proud of your island, my little man! Have you any brothers or sisters?”
“No—none.”
“None belonging to you but father and mother?”
“I have no mother now,” said he, with an effort to utter the words unmoved; but the struggle was too much, and he had to turn away his head as he tried to suppress the sobbing that overcame him.
“I am very, very sorry to have pained you, my boy,” said Vyner, with kindness. “Come down with me here, and see a little daughter of mine, who is nearly your own age.”
“I don’t want to see her. I want to go ashore.”
“So you shall, my boy; but you will eat something with us first, and see the strange place we live in. Come along;” and he took his hand to lead him forward.