“Yes, of course, I forgive him now, and you know, Des Saix, since that sort of a trial we had I have never said one word of reproach. I was not going to trample on a fallen man. But, you know, all that business, to use a coarse old English expression, sticks in my gizzard. It was not honourable, nor gentlemanly; I won’t add noble. I don’t think you ought to have done it to one who trusted you and helped you as I did. Now, look here; do you think it was a good example to set your son?”
“My friend,” said the Count humbly—“May I still call you my friend?”
“As long as you live, sir!” cried the doctor warmly.
“Then I say to you, No; it was dishonourable, treacherous, and vile. But my sword was devoted to the service of my dead master, my life was his, and I was ready to give all to save him from his unhappy fate. Can I say more than this: I have sinned. Forgive.”
As matters turned out it was many, many months, owing to an accident to the schooner and the delays in re-fitting at Las Palmas, and long stays made in the Mediterranean—the entrance to which could not be passed without a cruise within—before the Maid of Salcombe approached the English coast, and, oddly enough, once more Captain Chubb was driven to take refuge for a few hours at Havre-de-Grace, where one of the first things to be noticed was the familiar brig.
Inquiries followed at last, and Rodd and his uncle learned that the vessel had been lying there for some time while her captain, the Count, and his son were at Paris.
No: the officer in charge of the brig could give no information about their residence in Paris, but he had heard that they were not going to sail in the brig again, as they were about being appointed to a large ship in the King’s Navy.
“Humph, Rodd!” said the doctor. “This sounds like good news.”
“Yes, uncle, but we must try and see them again.”
“Would you like to?”