“Whisht, captin, dear!” said Dinny, softly; and then in a whisper, with a roguish leer, “sure, it isn’t me, sor; it’s the darlin’s took a bit of a fancy to me.”
“Yes, and you love her,” said Humphrey.
“Och, what a way ye have of putting it, sor! Sure, and the poor crittur lost her husband, and she’s been living here iver since, and she isn’t happy, and what could a boy do but thry to comfort her!”
“Are you going to marry her, Dinny?” said Humphrey, after a pause.
“Faix, an’ I would if I had a chance, sor; but there’s two obshticles in the way, and one of ’em’s Black Mazzard.”
“Then, why not take her, Dinny!”
“Tak’ her, sor?”
“Yes; from this wretched place. Escape.”
“Whisht! Don’t say that word aloud again, darlin’, or maybe the captin’ll get to hear. Sure, and I belave that the great big sthone gods shticking up all over the place gets to hear what’s said and whishpers it again to the captin, who always knows everything that goes on.”
“Take her, and help me to escape,” whispered Humphrey, earnestly.