Carlos looked at me with an expression of affection that a little shamed my lightness of tone:
“I love you much more than a kinsman, Juan,” he said. “I wish you could come with me. I try to arrange it. Later, perhaps, I may be dead. I am very ill.”
He was undoubtedly ill. Campaigning in Spain, exposure in England in a rainy time, and then the ducking when we came on board, had done him no good. He looked moodily at the sea.
“I wish you could come. I will try———”
The mate had paused, and was listening quite unaffectedly, behind Carlos’ back.
A moment after Carlos half turned and regarded him with a haughty stare.
He whistled and walked away.
Carlos muttered something that I did not catch about “spies of that pestilent Irishman.” Then:
“I will not selfishly take you into any more dangers,” he said. “But life on a sugar plantation is not fit for you.”
I felt glad and flattered that a personage so romantic should deem me a fit companion for himself. He went forward as if with some purpose.