“You may come up under parole,” said I, throwing open the door. “But you must bring your aunt’s parole also. You must give no alarm, for we have every reason here for silence.”
She turned back and held some converse with Auntie Lucinda, and by what spell I know not, won the promise of the latter to remain silent and make no attempt at escape. A little later she was at my side in the dim light cast by a flickering and distant arc light at the street.
“I have your word, then?” I demanded of her.
“Yes. You can’t blame me for wanting to get out, to see what is going on.”
“A great deal may be going on here any moment,” said I. “In fact, if I could show you the evening newspapers—which I purpose doing to-morrow morning—it might seem to you that a great deal already has gone on. For one thing, Cal Davidson is in town ahead of us. That’s his boat yonder, rubbing sides with us. He doesn’t know we’re here. He himself is off up-town, at the Boston Club, probably, or perhaps some of the cafés—he knows a thousand people here.”
“So do I, Harry,” said she. “To think of going by in this plight! And to think of leaving New Orleans without even one little supper at Luigi’s, Harry—it breaks my heart.”
“We are almost ready to sail, Helena. Suppose we see Luigi’s some other time. Things are getting pretty close about us here.”
“Any pirate should be a man of courage,” said she; “he should be ever willing to take a chance.”
“Very well; have I not taken several chances already?”
“And again, a pirate ought to be kind toward all women, oughtn’t he, Harry? I asked you this afternoon, why couldn’t we be friends again and stop all this foolishness. Let’s forget everything and just be friends.”