French shrugged his shoulders.
“’Tis naught,” he said carelessly, “save that in their youth old Ben Farran—the lass’s grandsire—and Nan Swayle, a sweet wench they say she was then—’tis strange what the rum will do to a woman’s face—well, Captain, they were—as you might say, sweethearts.”
He raised his eyes to Sue at the last word, but she was engrossed in the Spaniard, and looking away again he went on: “Well, Captain—Ben was a sailor—on the Eliza he was—and there he got the taste for rum pretty bad, and Nan, she couldn’t get the stuff for him so when Pet Salt came along—Pet o’ the Saltings she was then—with her begging tricks, the old devil left the one for the other. That’s all,” he concluded.
“Ah!” the Spaniard smiled, “a pretty story,” and then turning to Anny, “And so, Mistress, Nan Swayle hath a soft heart for thee, eh?”
“Ay, sir, she is very good to Red and me,” Anny said demurely.
“Red? And who might Red be?” The Spaniard looked up quickly. “A lover?”
Anny blushed again.
“Nay, sir, my little brother,” she said softly. “He lives with Mother Swayle.”
“So!” The thin, straight eyebrows on the olive brow rose in two arches. “I thought thy mother died when thou wast born?”
Big French broke in quickly.