Then, boy-like, we told this man all our terrible tale. We expected him to be visibly affected; perhaps, convict though he was, to shrink from us.
He certainly was visibly affected, but in a way we little expected. He laughed outright.
“For ten long year,” he said, “I never laugh before.”
The little mouse came down his sleeve again and sat on his wrist to wash his face and blink at the candle. The convict pointed to it with a forefinger and laughed again.
“Even Roderigo,” he cried, “is much amoose. Ha, ha, ha! Ah, boys,” he added, almost immediately getting serious; “you have a home. Go back to dat home. Go back, I say, go back. I speak as an all unworthy friend.”
“But they will hang us for piracy.”
“Do not make me laugh more. It does not become rags and grief to laugh. See, I am widout money, and naked, still I laugh. Poor boys, go back!”
I considered for a moment, then abruptly changed the subject.
“How do you expect to get away? We saw soldiers to-day on the moor. They were talking about you, and said you could not escape.”
His face grew darker and sadder.