“Nay, but, wife, this is sheer folly. You know not the dangers that await you—”
“Perhaps not,” interrupted Mrs Stanley; “but you know them, and that is enough for me.”
“Indeed, Jessie, I know them not. I can but guess at them.—But, ah! well, ’tis useless to argue further. Be it so; we shall head the list with you and Eda.”
“And put my name next,” said a deep-toned voice from behind the other men. All turned round in surprise.
“Dick Prince!” they exclaimed; “you here?”
“Ay, lads,” said a tall man of about forty, who was not so remarkable for physical development (though in this respect he was by no means deficient) as for a certain decision of character that betrayed itself in every outline of his masculine, intelligent countenance—“ay, lads, I’m here; an’ sorry am I that I’ve jist comed in time to hear that you’re sich poor-spirited rascals as to hang back when ye should jump for’ard.”
“But how came you so opportunely, Prince?” inquired Stanley.
“I met an Injin, sir, as told me you was goin’ off; so I thought you might want me, and comed straight back. And now, sir, I’m ready to go; and so is François,” he continued, turning to that individual, who seized his hand and exclaimed, “That am I, my boy—to the moon if ye like!”
“And Massan, too,” continued Prince.
“All right; book me for Nova Zembla,” replied that worthy.