“There, what did I tell ye, sor?” he cried. “Sure, an’ I’m not a buccaneer by trade—only a prishner.”
Humphrey strode up, for Mrs Greenheys had run to him with clasped hands.
“I’d take it kindly of ye, sor, if ye’d explain me position to these gintlemen—that I’m not an inimy, but a friend.”
“Yes,” said Humphrey, turning to the officer in command; “a very good friend to me, sir, and one who would be glad to serve the king.”
“Or anny wan else who behave dacently to him.”
“Let him tend his companion,” said Humphrey. “He is a good nurse for a wounded man.”
Mistress Greenheys caught Humphrey’s hand and kissed it.
“But she would have betrayed us,” he said to himself, as he looked down into the little woman’s tearful face; “still, it was for the sake of the man she loved.”
That night, covered with the English flag, which she had so often defied, the so-called Commodore Junk was borne to the resting-place selected by Humphrey Armstrong.
It was a solemn scene as the roughly-made bier was borne by lantern-light through the dark arcade of the forest, and the sailors looked up wonderingly at the strange aspect of the mouldering old pile.