“These are matters that are not fit for every ear,” said the decided and confident mariner, in an undertone, when he had made this sudden change in the position of the parties. “Deal with me frankly, Captain Ludlow:—is your prisoner left to brood on his melancholy, or does he feel the consolation of knowing that others take an interest in his welfare?”
“He does not want for sympathy, Master Tiller—since he has the pity of the finest woman in America.”
“Ha! la belle Barbérie owns her esteem!—is the conjecture right?”
“Unhappily, you are too near the truth. The infatuated girl seems but to live in his presence. She has so far forgotten the opinions of others, as to follow him to my ship!”
Tiller listened intently, and, from that instant, all concern disappeared from his countenance.
“He who is thus favored may, for a moment, even forget the brigantine!” he exclaimed, with all his natural recklessness of air. “And the Alderman——?”
“Has more discretion than his niece, since he did not permit her to come alone.”
“Enough.—Captain Ludlow, let what will follow. We part as friends. Fear not, sir, to touch the hand of a proscribed man, again; it is honest after its own fashion, and many is the peer and prince who keeps not so clean a palm. Deal tenderly with that gay and rash young sailor; he wants the discretion of an older head, but the heart is kindness itself—I would hazard life, to shelter his—but at every hazard the brigantine must be saved.—Adieu!”
There was strong emotion in the voice of the mariner of the shawl, notwithstanding his high bearing. Squeezing the hand of Ludlow, he passed back into his own barge, with the ease and steadiness of one who made the ocean his home.
“Adieu!” he repeated, signing to his men to pull in the direction of the shoals, where it was certain the ship could not follow. “We may meet again; until then, adieu.”