Thus the morning passed; and, at midday, we left the Cloisters to return to the Cells.
CHAPTER XXII.
THE GLORIOUS PIRATE.
On our way, as we entered the first wood, we came upon the man Barleycorn, who trimmed the path with a macheat. He was a small hairy man, bowed with toil and parched in the sun. He was a man of few words (as the saying is). Ambrose passed him the time of day, and he did but nod his head, as he lopped off a tree-shoot; and, when I asked him pleasantly if his work liked him, he merely winked at me with his eye.
As we stood by him, another approached through the wood. This was a great topping pirate, dressed in sky-blue clothes, with scarlet and green feathers in his hat. He did shine all glorious in the sun with his silver buttons, rings, pendants, bracelets, brooch, and buckle to his belt. He came swearing, as the lapels of his coat caught in the thicket; and, having drawn near, he dealt Barleycorn a kick with his foot, asking “Why the devil he kept not a better gang-way?”
The poor man rolled under a bush, and lay rubbing himself, with a rueful look on his wizened countenance. Then he got up, and fell to work again, saying meekly:
“Never be treading on old Barleycorn, mate. The poor old fellow’s got his work to do.”
This made me laugh; and the pirate said:
“All’s well, old fellow. If this here was Port Royal, I’d physic your bruise with the right tipple. But there, it a’n’t!”
“No,” said Ambrose, “there’s no taverns here for you.”
“I’ll speak nothing against the Doctor,” said the pirate, “but ’tis a thirsty soil an’ thirsty toil, and I wants my tipple. Water’s well enough for wild Indians, but....” He broke off, fetching a deep sigh.