“I did love once,” Fidette said, looking me frankly in the eyes and taking my hand as she spoke. “The young man was the son of an exiled Portuguese marshal, and had been condemned to penal servitude in the Azores for some political crime. He made his escape in a small boat with his father, hoping to be picked up at sea. Their provisions were lost overboard. The poor father went crazy from hunger and thirst, and, throwing himself into the sea, was drowned. The son became unconscious, and, after drifting about for several days, his boat was captured and brought to Sargasso, where the stranger was adopted by one of the Kantoons.”
“How was it that his life was spared?” I asked.
“Oh, his case was somewhat similar to yours. His life was not forfeited because he had not come with any purpose of conquest. His addition to our numbers was an accident, an entirely unsought incident in his life. He was very handsome, very tall and very dark.”
“How did you meet each other?” I inquired, although I had no intention of becoming a jealous inquisitor.
“Do you notice that large space of open water on our right, about midway between this ship and the next one?”
“Yes, I do,” was my reply. “I have often wondered why the sod has not covered it!”
“One of the finest vessels of our community floated there from the earliest period of my recollection until about six months before you came,” continued Fidette, thoughtfully.
I now noticed that her face had taken on an expression of sadness I never had observed before.
“It was one of Sir John Franklin’s ships, that had been abandoned in the north, had drifted southward until it was melted free from the encircling ice floe by the Gulf Stream, and found a haven here with us. This was long years before I came into the world, but I have heard the story from my dear mother’s lips many times, and I remembered the ship very well. On the Royal George the stranger found an asylum. He was so quiet and reserved that he attracted no attention whatever in the community for several months. One day, however, he came from the Kantoon of his own ship to deliver an official communication to my father. I was seated just where we are now. Our eyes met. It was a case of love at first sight for both of us, and although we found no opportunity or pretext to speak on this occasion, I did not let the second visit, which occurred within a week, pass without affording him an excuse to address me. I presented him the sprig of bay in token of my admiration, and, although he did not understand its full purport, he graciously replied in Portuguese, conveying his thanks. I speak only French, and, therefore, was compelled to murmur my appreciation of his words in that language. The young man replied in French, and we stood chatting at this side of the companionway some little time. Fortunately, the visit of his executive officer to my father was of longer duration than usual. The young Portuguese carried back with him triumphantly the sprig of green, and that act was the cause of much grief to us and of his subsequent destruction. Unwittingly, I destroyed the very life that I was interested in perpetuating. But of that I will tell you later.”
“What was his name?”