“Scarcely,” answered Willmington.
“You consider, therefore, that where the word of a priest has not been pronounced on your union, you are absolved from your honor, and from natural obligations?” inquired Hamilton.
“I do,” answered Willmington.
The lips of the young officer curled up with scorn, as he stood up and said, with ill-concealed disgust:
“Leave my cabin, sir; leave my cabin. By G—d you are not made worse than you are. If I were Appadocca, I should have hanged you outright, and not sent you with a philosophical scheme to float on a cask and to be picked up.
“Hark you, sir,” continued Hamilton, in a suffocating temper, “if you have a son that resembles you more than Appadocca does, born of Mrs. Willmington, understood—send him to me, sir, and, by his own appointment, I shall give him satisfaction for ordering you out of my cabin.”
Willmington turned to leave, but met face to face a servant that came rushing it.
“Your honour, your honour,” the man cried with much excitement, “the pirate prisoner has drowned himself.”
“What?” exclaimed Hamilton, and fell back into his chair.
“The pirate prisoner, your honour, has jumped overboard. When the steward went into his cabin this morning, he was not to be found: on examination, the skylight was discovered to be open.”