It was near midnight when the lock turned in the door and presently stepped inside—a girl.
“Malbrouk s’en va t’en guerre,” said she, and nodded her head to him humorously.
By this McGilveray knew that this was the maid that had got him into all this trouble. At first he was inclined to say so, but she came nearer, and one look of her black eyes changed all that.
“You’ve a way wid you, me darlin’,” said McGilveray, not thinking that she might understand.
“A leetla way of my own,” she answered in broken English.
McGilveray started. “Where did you learn it?” he asked, for he had had two surprises that night.
“Of my mother—at St. Malo,” she replied. “She was half English—of Jersey. You are a naughty boy,” she added, with a little gurgle of laughter in her throat. “You are not a good soldier to go a-chase of the French girls ‘cross of the river.”
“Shure I am not a good soldier thin. Music’s me game. An’ the band of Anstruther’s rigimint’s mine.”
“You can play tunes on a drum?” she asked, mischievously.
“There’s wan I’d play to the voice av you,” he said, in his softest brogue. “You’ll be unloosin’ me, darlin’?” he added.