Henry was taken aback by this unexpected remark, which was made in a low sad tone.
“Can I think too badly of one who confesses himself to be a pirate?” said Henry.
“The confession is at least in my favour. I had no occasion to confess, nor to give myself up to you.”
“Give yourself up! It remains to be seen whether you mean to do that or not.”
“Do you not believe me, Henry? Do you not believe the account that I gave of myself to you and your mother?”
“How can I?” said the young man, hesitatingly.
“Your mother believed me.”
“Well, Gascoyne, to tell you the plain truth, I do feel more than half inclined to believe you; and I’m sorry for you—I am, from my soul. You might have led a different life—you might even do so yet.”
“You forget,” said Gascoyne, smiling sadly, “I have given myself up, and you are bound to prevent my escaping.”
Henry was perplexed by this reply. In the enthusiasm of his awakened pity he had for a moment forgotten the pirate in the penitent. Before he could reply, however, the cutter struck violently on a rock, and an exclamation of alarm and surprise burst from the crew, most of whom were assembled on deck.