“Ah! Capt. Grandiere, old friend, you do not know! You do not know! Capt. Silver has proved the truth of his story to me,” replied Roland, in a tone of despair.
“How has he proved this?” demanded the old skipper.
“I dare not tell you that. His story involves the—the—honor of another—of another family. I cannot breathe another word on this subject beyond the bare fact that I know myself to be Silver’s son, and will not give testimony to convict my father. So much was due to you, and told that you may know why I will not testify.”
“Then——!——!——!” The old skipper let off a volley of oaths that might have been highly effectual in a storm at sea, or a fight with pirates, but that fell on Rosemary’s delicate ears like claps of thunder, and made her put her hands up to shelter them—and he finished by saying—“If I don’t give a hint to the authorities and have you put upon the stand and compelled to give evidence.”
The young man made no reply, but turning to Rosemary, began to ask about their mutual friends.
The girl answered all his questions to the best of her knowledge.
This conversation lasted until the old skipper arose to take leave.
“Captain,” said Roland, “my advice to you is to take Rosemary down to Maryland and leave her there with her friends. Washington, under present circumstances, is certainly no place for the child.”
“I will not go, Roland. I will not stir from this city until I see you through this trouble!” said the girl.
“You hear that?” inquired the old skipper. “And you see that I could not get her away without turning Turk and tyrant, and calling in the power of the law and using force and violence to back up that. What can an old ruffian like me, even though I weigh two hundred pounds, and am the terror of the roughest crew afloat, do with a mite of a blue-eyed angel? She’ll do as she likes, if she dies for it!” growled the skipper.