“I guess not,” was the reply. “He’s been in the American army; but I’ve heard say he’s Irish. Nothing against him for that.”
“Of course not,” answered the aristocratic-looking gentleman. “I merely asked out of curiosity.”
It must have been a strong curiosity that caused him, after retiring a little, to take out his note-book, and enter in it a memorandum, evidently referring to the revolutionary leader.
Furthermore, the information thus received appeared to have increased his interest in the crowd below.
Dropping the hand of his daughter, and pressing forward to the rail, he watched its evolutions with eagerness.
By this time the assemblage had warmed into a more feverish state of excitement. Men were talking in a louder strain, with more rapid gesticulations—some pulling out their watches, and looking impatiently at the time. It was close upon twelve o’clock—the hour of the steamer’s starting. She had already sounded the signal to get aboard.
All at once the loud talk ceased, the gesticulation was suspended, and the crowd stood silent, or spoke only in whispers. A spark of intelligence had drifted mysteriously amongst them.
It was explained by a shout heard afar off, on the outer edge of the assemblage.
“He is coming?”
The shout was taken up in a hundred repetitions, and carried on to the centre of the mass, and still on to the steamer.