“I was asking,” said Linton, changing his language to French, “if you had been a sailor?”
“Yes, sir,” replied he, again removing his cap, “a sailor from Trieste.”
“And how came you here?”
“Our vessel was lost off the Blasquets, sir, on Wednesday night. We were bound for Bristol with fruit from Sicily, and caught in a gale; we struck, and all were lost, except myself and another, now in hospital in the large city yonder.”
“Were you a petty officer, or a common seaman?” said linton, who had been scanning with keen eye the well-knit frame and graceful ease of the speaker.
“A common sailor, sir,” rejoined he, modestly.
“And how comes it that you are a musician, friend?” asked Linton, shrewdly.
“Every one is in my country, sir—at least, with such humble skill as I possess.”
“What good fortune it was to have saved your guitar from shipwreck!” rejoined Linton, with an incredulous twinkle of his gray eyes.
“I did not do so, sir,” said the sailor, who either did not, or would not, notice the sarcasm. “My good friends here”—pointing to the servants—“bought this for me in the last town we came through.”