“Well, well, my pretty councillor,” he said—“an hour to cheer an old man’s leisure?”
“As many as you please,” she answered daintily, putting her hand within his arm. “I am so very cheerful I need to shower the surplus.” There was a smile at her lips, but her eyes were misty. Large, brilliant, gentle, they had now also a bewildered look, which even the rough old soldier saw. He did not understand, but he drew the hand further within his arm and held it, there, and for the instant he knew not what to say. The girl did not speak; she only kept looking at him with a kind of inward smiling. Presently, as if he had suddenly lighted upon a piece of news for the difficulty, he said: “Radisson has come.”
“Radisson!” she cried.
“Yes. You know ‘twas he that helped George to escape?”
“Indeed, no!” she answered. “Mr. Gering did not tell me.” She was perplexed, annoyed, yet she knew not why.
Gering had not brought Radisson into New York had indeed forbidden him to come there, or to Boston, until word was given him; for while he felt bound to let the scoundrel go with him to the Spaniards’ country, it was not to be forgotten that the fellow had been with Bucklaw. But Radisson had no scruples when Gering was gone, though the proscription had never been withdrawn.
“We will have to give him freedom, councillor, eh? even though we proclaimed him, you remember.” He laughed, and added: “You would demand that, yea or nay.
“Why should I?” she asked.
“Now, give me wisdom all ye saints! Why—why?
“Faith, he helped your lover from the clutches of the French coxcomb.”