“Fair as a seagull and proud as the sea,
As naught in the world is fair Anny to me,
So gentle, so tender, so wise without guile,
Oh! Where is another like Ann of the Isle?
Ann! oh! Ann of the Island,
Where is another like Ann of the Isle?”
By this time the rumkins were all replenished and the chorus of the song was taken up and repeated to the accompaniment of jingling pewter.
Dick still kept his position and took up the song again, his dark eyes flashing and smiling at the girl who watched him, fascinated.
“Avaunt ye fine ladies of France and of Spain,
So wayward, so wanton, so proud, and so vain.
No sweet pleading look, no trick, or no wile,
Shall ever more tempt me from Ann of the Isle.
Ann! oh! Ann of the Island,
Where is another like Ann of the Isle?”
And then he added before any one could speak, “To the brig, dogs,” and skipping lightly off the table he offered his hand to Anny and led the way out into the yard, the whole company following, roaring as they went,
“Ann! oh! Ann of the Island,
Where is another like Ann of the Isle?”
Anny looked up shyly at the Spaniard, her heart beating quickly with excitement. He was strolling jauntily along, her hand lightly held in his own; the starlight touched the jewelled hilt of his knife, and his big mournful black eyes winked and smiled happily.
He loved display, pageant, parade; she could see that by the way his men marched around him in regulated order, and by his gorgeous clothes, and she herself became a little intoxicated by the air of excitement and the singing of the laughing, jostling crowd.
Glancing at him under her lashes, she slipped her hand through his arm and laughed a little self-consciously.
A curious, self-satisfied, but half-regretful smile passed over his face and he bent toward her.