"Help yourself, Bo's'n," said the Skipper. We all stood round, in the fashion of seafaring men, and drank the health of "The Lady," and then "To you, Captain," and then "To you, Mr. Jones," and then "To you, Bo's'n."
"Give us a regular toast, Bo's'n," said the Skipper; "one of the old timers." The Skipper filled his glass to the brim and waited. The Bo's'n hemmed and hawed.
"I don't know anything very new, sir, Cap'n, sir," he said. "Just the same old one I always knew." He hawed and hemmed again, bowed to Miss Archer, bowed to the Captain, and bowed to me. He bowed to the recumbent form of the young Englishman. After that he gave a comprehensive bow all round. Then, with flushed cheeks and eyes staring straight ahead, he rattled off as a schoolboy would:
"Thewindthatblowsandtheshipthatgoesandthelassthatlovesasailorthat's prettystrongcap'nsir."
We all drank to the Bo's'n's toast, knowing it well from time immemorial. Cynthia gazed in amaze at the Bo's'n, as if he were speaking a new tongue.
"Now yours, Captain," said I.
The Skipper cleared his throat, raised himself a little on tiptoe, and swayed back and forth with a swinging motion, to which his sing-song voice kept time:
"Here's to all them that love this, And here's to all those, And them that love those. And those that love them that love this."
I can see them now as they stood there—the Skipper, his face beaming with good nature; the Bo's'n, bashful, but enjoying the privilege of drinking on an equality with his Captain; Cynthia, looking on, half amused. I see them against the background of that dim cavern, the sunlight flecking the floor and wall in spots, where it had pierced the lattice work of leaves. There was a human background also, composed of two figures, the sleeping lad, and Lacelle who hovered ever near her rescuer and protector. And behind all we were conscious of a presence, we knew not quite what, but a kindly personality, which aided us with unobtrusiveness and in a thousand thoughtful ways. With all the privations that we suffered, with all the anxieties and troubles that we had to bear, there is still something which fascinates and draws me back to much that I experienced in those days—dead this many a year. The sweetest odours were wafted in through the leaves, the mocking-bird sang as nothing but a mocking-bird can sing, the vines swayed to and fro in the open window. Glancing between, one perceived the wondrous blue water of the Caribbean Sea, dotted with the white caps of which the trade wind is ever lavish, and, above all the sounds of voices and singing of birds, there was the lap and swish of the fierce little waves as they rushed up over the shingle. It was May, the latter part of May, and the seasons, following round as our seasons at Belleville do, brought each their variety of leaf and flower. If one leaned out of the natural window in the blazing sun, with the fresh wind blowing the hair awry, one's eyes rested on a slope of brilliant tropic colour, where creepers hung from the trees or threaded under and over fallen forest giants, or crept down the hill and made beds and masses of bloom too beautiful to be credited. Great yellow velvet cups stood out from their background of green. Lilies of white and crimson drooped from stems which glowed with life. Had we been but free from care, and had Cynthia possessed but the ordinary comforts to which she had been wonted, I should have asked for nothing better than to pass the rest of our days in this enchanting spot.