Gil nodded.
“I grew so hot of blood and angry at last with the way they kept me in, and the too free use I made of the most villainous ale, Master Cobbe, I ever put to my lips, that had I not been blooded freely by a chirurgeon, I should have been ill. It was not the proper time—the haemeroyal time, though close upon the full, but I let him take a good ten ounces from my veins, and felt a better man.”
“It would have been better, Master Peasegood, had you been here.”
“True, lad, but I was not my own ruler. That Sir Mark never trusted me. I had hard work to get free again, and hurried down to get to our darling’s side. You saw me when I came—that night? Sir Thomas Beckley overtook me, and he brought me on.”
Gil bent his head, and held out his hand, which the other pressed.
“When do you sail again?” said the parson.
“I sail again? Maybe never,” said Gil. “Why should I sail?”
“To give thyself occupation—work—toil-weary evening and restful night. Up, man, and work. Bear thy load bravely till Heaven send the soft touch of time to make it lighter. Thou art young; thy ship waits. Go across the sea and do thy work. This is no place for thee.”
“Why do you interfere with me, Master Peasegood?” cried Gil, testily. “I am none of thy followers.”
“Nay, my lad, thou art not; but I give thee good advice that my lips seemed urged to speak. Go and toil, and sit not down sobbing like a fretful child.”