Still Anny did not move and Hal Grame, looking up from the rum keg which he was tapping, cursed the Spaniard’s clothes with that honest venom which is only known to youth.
“Ah, a good draught!” The Spaniard put down the pot and touched his lips with a lace-edged handkerchief.
“Mistress, another by your leave,” he said suddenly. Then his gaze, too, became fixed, his dark eyes taking in every detail of her face.
“God’s Fool!” he exclaimed. “Mistress, you are wondrous fair.”
Anny blushed and, her senses returning to her, she curtseyed and taking up the empty tankard tripped off with a gentle—“As you wish,” as she went.
Black’erchief Dick stared after her for a second or two before he turned to French.
“By my faith, Master French, you have no poor skill in choosing a wench,” he said.
Big French laughed and reddened.
“Oh!” he said carelessly. “’Tis not she but the other I would have favour from.”
The Spaniard darted a look of misbelief at his big companion, but he said nothing, for Anny had returned and was standing before him, a brimming tankard in her hand.