“I—I—yes, I do know something about her,” replied Foster, in some confusion.
“Do you know where she hides?”
“N–no; I do not.”
“I have been led to understand that British officers never tell lies,” returned the Moor sternly.
The blood rushed to the middy’s face as he replied boldly, “You have been correctly informed—at least, in regard to those officers who are true gentlemen.”
“Why, then, do you hesitate?” retorted the Moor. “Do Englishmen blush and stammer when they tell the truth? Tell me the truth now. Do you know where the English girl hides?”
The Moor spoke very sternly, but his slave, instead of becoming more confused, suddenly drew himself up, and replied in a voice and with a look as stern as his own—
“Ben-Ahmed, I told you the truth at first. I do not know where she is hiding. I did, indeed, know some time ago, but the place of her abode has been changed, and I do not know now. I may as well however say at once that, if I did know, nothing that you can do would induce me to tell you where she hides. You may imprison, torture, or slay me if you choose, but in regard to Hester Sommers I am from this moment dumb!”
There was a curious smile on the Moor’s lips while the midshipman delivered this speech with flashing eyes and energetic action, but there was no anger in his tone as he replied—
“Englishman,” he said quietly, “you love this girl.” If a bombshell had exploded under his feet our middy could hardly have been taken more by surprise. But he had been put on his mettle now, and scorned to show again a wavering front.