“We had trouble enough with that box of papers,” said Hughes, musing; “and as your interests are concerned, and your succession to your father’s property at stake, I suppose we must submit.”
“Submit,” replied Isabel, brightly; “it’s no very hard task, methinks. Suppose you tell me the rest of the tale you left unfinished that fearful night on the raft; or shall we ride to Wynebergh?”
“Not the ride, certainly; I’m not equal to the exertion,” replied the soldier.
Isabel laughed heartily; and, as the bright silvery tone rang out Hughes, for the life of him, could not help joining though the missionary’s parting words came back to him.
“You will tire of the water-melons, Hughes, and when you do so, think of the ‘Ruined Cities of Zulu Land,’ and your old comrade working alone.”
The words had proved prophetic. Accustomed to a life of activity and exercise, his present existence seemed monotonous, do what he could to think otherwise. The pleasant life had no object.
“Well, then, finish me the tale, Enrico mio, and this time you may talk as much as you choose of birds and trees.”
“I don’t exactly remember where I left off, Isabel,” replied Hughes, once more yawning heavily. “A stab in the arm, and to find oneself suddenly knocked into an ocean peopled with sharks, in the middle of a quiet tale, does not conduce to the general comfort of the historian; however, I’ll try. Lend me that cushion.”
Placing his elbow on it, and looking up into the beautiful face bent over the embroidery, Hughes remained silent. Truth to say, as he watched the long black silken lashes, and traced the blue veins under the clear olive skin, he began to think himself the most dissatisfied of mortals.
“Well, Enrico,—and my tale?” asked Isabel, looking up.