Although Wells took little interest in these details, yet he loved to listen to the sweet tones of a remembered voice; and, as the evening had begun to close in, and Lucy talked of returning home, he resolved to put faith in the good feelings and discretion of the maiden. In an instant he had leaped down the ladder and stood at her side.
Lucy gave a faint scream, and cast a look of astonishment at Margaret.
"It is only a stranger," said Margaret, answering to Lucy's glance, "whom Stephen has promised to shelter.—You need not fear."
"Fear!" repeated the galleyman, as he gazed on the beautiful features of the abashed Lucy; "what can such an angel have to fear?—and yet, by the saints! such a prize would tempt the honestest captain that ever commanded a vessel. Years have passed away since I last saw you;—you were then but a child. You have forgotten me—but in storm or in sunshine, never have I forgotten you: the first sound of your voice, when I was aloft there, made my heart beat—and I thought I would run all hazards and face you. But—you don't know who is talking to you—Do you?"
"No," replied Lucy, "I don't think I ever saw you before."
"Oh yes, but you did;—don't you remember one Robin Wells, a stout rosy boy with curly hair, that made you a wreath of holly and ivy—one All-hallows day—and put it on your head, and called you a little queen? You were ten years old that day, and it is just ten years and three days since then. Don't you remember it?"
"Yes," said Lucy, blushing deeply, and half raising her bright eyes to see if she could identify the stranger with the boy who used to pluck fruits and flowers for her, and make garlands for her hair; but the fixed gaze of the galleyman compelled her to withdraw her inquisitive glance, and then there was a moment of silence, during which Lucy's burning cheeks told she was conscious the stranger's eyes were still regarding her. But her embarrassment was far from very painful;—there was something so gratifying, especially to a warm-hearted girl, to be remembered for so many years by one whom she had herself forgotten—for poor Lucy never once suspected the truth of what Wells had asserted!
"You are changed, Lucy;" said the galleyman, in a meditative tone, "and so am I; but a quiet home has reared you into loveliness; while cold, heat, and storms, have made me what I am. It was that ivy wreath of yours that made me a wanderer—I spent a couple of hours gathering and making it, and they promised me a flogging for idling, and so, after putting the crown on your head I set off, and here I am again after ten years, looking old enough to be your father—but, hark you, maiden—sailors are thirsty souls, and here have I been laid up these two days, without tasting a drop of any thing stronger than—ha! ha!—milk! Your father has plenty of stout ale, and I'm sure such a little angel as you will have the charity to bring a flagon to a poor seaman adrift."
Lucy, glad to escape from the gaze of the galleyman, and also pleased at an opportunity of showing kindness to an old acquaintance, instantly arose, promising to return in a few minutes with some ale.
"But, take care," said Margaret, "that you say not whom it is for."