“But, Roland, you are no pirate—no slaver. It is impossible that you should be!” exclaimed the old skipper with the utmost confidence, yet still eagerly, prayerfully gazing into the troubled face of his young mate for confirmation of those words.
But still no such confirmation came.
The door opened and a soldier entered.
“Sorry,” he said, in a serio-comic spirit in which some of the soldiers jested their cares away, “sorry to separate you, but the best of friends must part. Shutting up time has come, and the word is march!”
“Do you mean I must go?” inquired the old skipper.
“That’s about the measure of it, granddad.”
“Good-by, Roland, lad! Mind, I don’t believe any ill of you, in spite of all. I shall come to see you again to-morrow, and bring Rosemary with me.”
“No! no! no! no! Do not bring her! I am parted from Rosemary forever! The sight of her—would unman me!” cried the youth.
“Then—what am I to say to her when I see her?”
“Say—the best you can—the fairest, the most merciful you can!” exclaimed Roland.