“One thing more, General; there is your captive.”—
“Shall I make him drunk too?”
“By no means. Let him be conducted hither.”
The General made an ejaculation of assent, and left the cabin. “It were weak,” thought the Rover as he resumed his walk up and down the apartment, “to trust too much to an ingenuous face and youthful enthusiasm. I am deceived if the boy has not had reason to think himself disgusted with the world, and ready to embark in any romantic enterprise but, still, to be deceived might be fatal therefore will I be prudent, even to excess of caution. He is tied in an extraordinary manner to these two seamen I would I knew his history. But all that will come in proper time. The men must remain as hostages for his own return, and for his faith. If he prove false, why, they are seamen;—and many men are expended in this wild service of ours! It is well arranged; and no suspicion of any plot on our part will wound the sensitive pride of the boy, if he be, as I would gladly think, a true man.”
Such was, in a great manner, the train of thought in which the Rover indulged, for many minutes, after his military companion had left him. His lips moved; smiles, and dark shades of thought, in turn, chased each other from his speaking countenance, which betrayed all the sudden and violent changes that denote the workings of a busy spirit within. While thus engrossed in mind, his step became more rapid, and, at times, he gesticulated a little extravagantly when he found himself, in a sudden turn, unexpectedly confronted by a form that seemed to rise on his sight like a vision.
While most engaged in his own humours, two powerful seamen had, unheeded, entered the cabin; and, after silently depositing a human figure in a seat, they withdrew without speaking. It was before this personage that the Rover now found himself. The gaze was mutual, long, and uninterrupted by a syllable from either party. Surprise and indecision held the Rover mute, while wonder and alarm appeared to have literally frozen the faculties of the other. At length the former, suffering a quaint and peculiar smile to gleam for a moment across his countenance, said abruptly,—
“I welcome sir Hector Homespun!”
The eyes of the confounded tailor—for it was no other than that garrulous acquaintance of the reader who had fallen into the toils of the Rover—the eyes of the good-man rolled from right to left, embracing, in their wanderings, the medley of elegance and warlike preparation that they every where met never failing to return, from each greedy look, to devour the figure that stood before him.
“I say, Welcome, sir Hector Homespun!” repeated the Rover.
“The Lord will be lenient to the sins of a miserable father of seven small children!” ejaculated the tailor. “It is but little, valiant Pirate, that can be gotten from a hard-working, upright tradesman, who sits from the rising to the setting sun, bent over his labour.”