“Oh, dearie, no, we’re going before the wind right away to bonnie France.”
“Hurrah!” cried Barclay; “that is awfully jolly.”
Then his face fell somewhat.
“What will dear mother think, though?”
“It will only be for one night, my lad. As soon as we reach Dieppe we’ll telegraph, you know.”
Then away to a cupboard walked or rather staggered the weird wee man. First he lit the big swing-lamp, for already gloaming was falling over the sea.
As he lit the lamp, Antonio chanted or sang in his sweetest tones:
“The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in its flight.
. . . . . .
And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares that infest the day
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.”
. . . . . .