But it was not. The child continued to gaze upon him, regardless of all else around.
And so on till a man of graceful mien—grey-haired and of paternal aspect—came alongside, caught her gently by the hand, and led her away, with the intention of taking her below.
On reaching the head of the stairway she glanced back, still with that same wildering look; and again, as the bright face with its golden glories sweeping down behind it, disappeared below the level of the deck.
“What’s the matter with you, Maynard?” asked the Count, seeing that his comrade had become suddenly thoughtful. “By the way you stand looking after that little sprout, one might suppose her to be your own!”
“My dear Count,” rejoined Maynard, in an earnest, appealing tone, “I beg you won’t jest with me—at all events, don’t laugh, when I tell you how near you have hit upon my wish.”
“What wish?”
“That she were my own.”
“As how?”
“As my wife.”
“Wife! A child not fourteen years of age! Cher capitaine! you are turning Turk! Such ideas are not becoming to a revolutionary leader. Besides, you promised to have no other sweetheart than your sword! Ha—ha—ha! How soon you’ve forgotten the naiad of Newport!”