“That is so,” frankly confessed Dick. “It is true that I sunned myself too much in the light of that bright lady’s smiles. It was the old, old story of the moth and the flame. But no one was hurt except myself. I was smartly singed. I should, perhaps, have been entirely consumed but for a mercifully severe hand that took me away from the fatal light and warmth of the flame, and put me out in the cold and dark. And so—saved me.”
And, saying this, Dick lighted his hookah and withdrew into a cloud of incense.
“Come, Dick, talk prose, not poetry. We’re a practical party here, we are! The mercifully severe hand that took you away from the fire and put you out in the cold, was no other than the fair lady’s hand that tendered you the traditional mitten. I thought so!” laughed Reding.
“No; it was the war-worn hand of a veteran soldier. My uncle had me up before him one morning; actually arraigned me in the most magisterial manner; set Alick’s rights, Anna’s duties, and my own trespasses squarely before me, and then appealed to my honor; to which, I need not say, Messieurs, no one ever yet appealed in vain. I have never seen my fair cousin since that day.”
“Quite right, Hammond. I honor your principles,” said the nameless gentleman.
“Ume-me-me!” groaned young Harpe, rising sanctimoniously. “My brethren, let us awle unite in prayer.”
“Hold your profane tongue, sir,” said Captain Reding, pushing the mocker down into his seat. “And don’t drink any more brandy! You’re crazy now. You’ll be under the table presently.”
“Sober as any man here,” laughed Harpe, dropping into his chair.
“Appealed to your honor, did he, Hammond?” said Reding, turning to Dick. “Well, I suppose the word has some meaning for you and for the gallant old gentleman. But I wonder how Alick Lyon understands honor, and how he reconciles it with his present course.”
“His present course. What do you mean?” inquired Dick.