Morny laughed, a pleasant, almost girlish smile lighting up his well-cut Gallic features.
“Why, Rodd,” he cried, “isn’t that rather hard? I used to think that was the most horrible time in my life, but I feel now that one part of it was the most delightful.”
“There you go again,” cried Rodd. “You are beginning.”
“No, no, I wasn’t. But I can’t forget being a prisoner in England, and about all that I went through there with my father when he was bad so long with his wound.”
“Bad so long with his wound?” said Rodd eagerly. “Ah! You may talk about that. Yes, I should like to hear. Tell me all about your being taken prisoners, and how it happened.”
“For you never to be friends with me any more?” said the French lad maliciously.
“No, no, no. But I hate for you to be what you call grateful. You are quite a good sort of chap, and you speak our language so well that I forget you are not English sometimes, till you begin to be grateful to me for saving you, and then I feel that you are French. There, now you may tell me all about it—I mean about before you met me fishing.”
The two lads were under the awning upon this particular day just amidships. It was a hot and breathless time, but both were pretty well inured to the weather, and were so interested in the subjects supplied to them by Nature in the way of floating wonders that they never troubled themselves about the heat.
Upon this occasion they were lying together upon the deck, suffering to a certain extent from lassitude consequent upon the heat. There was a man at the wheel, and Joe Cross was seated upon the main cross-trees with a spy-glass across his legs, ready to raise it from time to time and direct it eastward to try and pierce the faint silvery haze that lay low upon the horizon. The boys had grown very silent and thoughtful, Moray trying to recall memories of the past so that he might respond to his English friend’s demand upon him that he should relate something of his old experiences in connection with the war and his being brought over to England, and so deep in thought that he paid no heed to his companion. Meantime, Rodd, without any desire to play the eavesdropper, lay listening to the scraps of conversation which came up through the cabin skylight, growing a little louder than usual, for, as was occasionally the case, an argument was afloat respecting the late war, the doctor according to his wont growing wroth upon an allusion being made by his guest to the ex-Emperor Napoleon; and there were evidently threatenings of a storm, which was, however, suppressed by the grave dignity of the Count and a feeling of annoyance which attacked Uncle Paul upon realising that he had ventured upon dangerous ground.
“Oh, Uncle Paul,” said Rodd to himself, and he lay and laughed softly, making Morny start.