“Who art thou, child?—and who has sent thee hither?” demanded Ludlow. The boy raised a cap of the same rose-colored silk, and pointed to an image of a female, with a swarthy face and a malign smile, painted, with exceeding art, on its front.
“I serve the sea-green lady, with the others of the brigantine.”
“And who is this lady of the color of shallow water, and whence come you, in particular?”
“This is her likeness—if you would speak with her, she stands on the cut-water, and rarely refuses an answer.”
“’Tis odd that a form of wood should have the gift of speech!”
“Dost think her then of wood?” returned the child, looking timidly, and yet curiously, up into the face of Ludlow. “Others have said the same; but those who know best, deny it. She does not answer with a tongue, but the book has always something to say.”
“Here is a grievous deception practised on the superstition of this boy! I have read the book, and can make but little of its meaning.”
“Then read again. ’Tis by many reaches that the leeward vessel gains upon the wind. My master has bid me bring you in—”
“Hold—Thou hast both master and mistress?—You have told us of the latter, but we would know something of the former. Who is thy master?”
The boy smiled and looked aside, as if he hesitated to answer.