But, lord! there was little in her aspect to encourage such a hope, as she stood there erect and scornful, her pretty brows bent in angry scorn as she looked on me, tapping her silk skirt impatiently with her riding-whip. But this did not daunt my spirit, for I knew how sweet those brows were when they unbent, and that her dainty hand was more apt to caress than to strike.
While my heart was aflame with this sudden return of passion, the justice spoke:
"What says the commander? There the point is, I take it."
"Speak up, Sir Harry," says Sir Bartlemy.
"I will have him for my lieutenant as willingly as I would make him my friend," says Sir Harry Smidmore.
Hearing this my heart being filled with feeling rebelled against my reason, for I knew not until that moment who was to be the commander of this expedition.
"Now, Ben," says Sir Bartlemy, "you have the chance to redeem the past—ay, more than that—to make us love you as we never loved you yet. Will you accept the offer freely made by us?"
"What!" says I to myself, "win gold and honors for Smidmore to lay at her feet? Never!" And so I laughed with a brutal scorn and shook my head.
"An obstinate, contumacious rascal," cries Sir Bartlemy, with one of those sea oaths which he was more free to utter than I have been to set down here; "yet," says he, softening in a moment, "must we bear with him by reason of his misfortunes to the utmost limits. I have failed; plead thou for him, dear girl" (turning to Lady Biddy), "or he must go back again to the pillory."
"Ay, with all my heart," says Lady Biddy, advancing; "and, as you love me, sir," bending slightly to the justice, "I do beg you to favor my pleading. Send him not back to the pillory, for sure when that, together with my uncle's gentle, kind persuasion, fails to win him to a decent behavior, 'tis evident that a sharper remedy is needed for his disorder. Prythee, then, dear sir, send him to the whipping-post; there to be soundly whipped."