“You—you were at Havre!” cried the elder officer excitedly; and he stepped closer to Rodd, his young companion, watchful and on the alert, following his example and keeping close as if to defend him from any attempted seizure.
“Yes, yes, of course,” cried Rodd, without looking at the speaker, his eyes being fixed upon the young man.
“Then this is a French vessel?” cried the officer.
“No, sir,” replied Uncle Paul. “It is my schooner, and I am not in pursuit of your brig.”
“Why, it is!” cried Rodd suddenly, as he dropped the butt of his unloaded gun with a thud upon the deck. “I thought I knew you again!—Uncle, this is the young French prisoner I helped to escape from Dartmoor.”
Before he could say another word the sword the young Frenchman held dropped from his hand to the extent of its gold-laced knot, and to Rodd’s confusion a pair of thin arms were flung about his neck and he was held tightly to the young stranger’s breast.
“Oh, mon ami! mon ami! My dear friend!” he cried. “Do we meet once more like this? Mon père, c’est le jeune Anglais qui nous a sauvés dans cet affreux temps.”
“Moray!” cried the officer, looking stunned. “Is this true?”
“True? Oh yes! Oh yes!” cried the lad, speaking now in English. “You, young angler, fisherman, this is my dear father.”
To Rodd’s false shame and confusion, he had to submit to another embrace, for before he could realise what was about to happen the officer had followed his son’s example and not only embraced him, but kissed him on both cheeks.