“Yes, cheer away, you idiots,” cried Chris, rising from his seat in his jealous agony; “cheer and shout, and go down on the stones and grovel before him.”
Bang!
“That’s right! Again. Again. Down with you, and let him walk in triumph over your necks. The new man—the new master of the Fort.”
“They know it,” he groaned, as he dashed to the window, and then backed away, after seeing that he was right, and that Glyddyr was coming along the pier, scattering coins among the little crowd that had gathered round, while the sound of hurrying feet could be heard as men and boys, attracted by the gunfire, were running down to the harbour.
“Yes, they know it. The new lord of the Fort, and I stand here instead of joining them, and cheering too for the new king of the castle. My God, what a world it is!”
He stopped short, pale and ghastly, as the cheering came nearer, and just then, looking proud and elate, Parry Glyddyr passed the window on his way to the hotel.
“And leave him to triumph over my death!” muttered Chris, in a low fierce voice. “No,” he added, after a pause; “I’ve been too great a cur as it is. Not yet: it has not come quite to the worst.”
Chris was right. There had been communication between Claude and Glyddyr, and quiet pertinacity, mingled with the greatest show of gentle respect and consideration, had not been without result.
It was only a short run across to Ettreville, and one morning, during a walk with Mary, Glyddyr came up to salute Claude with grave, respectful courtesy.
They had just put in for a few hours, he said, and they sailed again that afternoon. He was so glad to see Miss Gartram again, and he was sure she was better for the change.