“Ay,” he said, “she did. The lad, Red, a fine child and one I love, was brought home from the South by young Ruddy, the wench’s father, the trip before his last—drowned he was, peace to him.”
“Oh!” the eyebrows straightened themselves. Black’erchief Dick turned once more to Anny. “And so my little beauty hath only Nan Swayle to take care of her,” he said, smiling at her kindly as though she had been a child.
“Nay!” The word escaped from Hal Grame’s lips before he had time to stop it. Immediately the Spaniard’s glittering black eyes were turned on the young Norseman. They took in every detail of his appearance, the coarse scarlet homespun shirt, the white throat, and girlish pink and white face crowned with golden-yellow elf locks, and the deep blue eyes which faltered and fell before the Spaniard’s as they bent on the boy in an amused stare.
“Indeed, sir, and who else?” Black’erchief Dick spoke negligently, the smile still on his lips.
The boy blushed and would not meet the other’s eyes.
“We look after our wenches at the Ship,” he said gruffly.
Dick laughed.
“Of course you do, O knight of the Spigot,” he said genially. “Believe me, sir, I had no meaning to cast a slur upon the fame of your house.”
“Ah, ’tis well, then,” and without looking up Hal began to clear away the delf from the now dismantled table.
Dick watched him march off with a tray of dirty crockery in his hands, then he shrugged his shoulders.