“So do we all,” cried Peter, jovially. “Oh, here’s to the Queen, God bless her!”
“God bless her,” said Ritchie. “I wonders now if ever she drank a basin o’ maté in all her born days. Strikes me, as a sailor like, sir, it’s better nor tea and beer, and better nor all the rum in the universe.”
Our talk was now of home. This soon gave place to yarns of our various adventures, Ritchie being in excellent form to-night, and, between the whiffs he took of his Indian pipe, he related to us some marvellous experiences. Though his English was not of the best, he managed to make it graphic, and every picture he drew, we seemed to see before us. I suppose Castizo saw those pictures in the fire. He kept gazing steadily into it, at all events, and was more silent than usual.
Perhaps his thoughts were not in Ritchie’s stories at all. I felt now, as I sat near him, that Castizo had a story to tell of his own life, if he only would, and I felt, too, the story was a sad one.
Presently he seemed to awaken from a reverie; he pulled himself together, as it were, lit a fresh cigar, and smiled round on us.
“I’ve been dreaming, boys,” he said.
“Dreaming with them black eyes o’ yours open, sir?” said Ritchie.
“Ay, Ritchie, ay; I often dream with my eyes open. But, Peter, where is your pipe?”
Peter got his pipe out, and very delightful music he discoursed.
But in every lull of the conversation we could hear the wail of the snow-wind.