“Try your success with women, my son,” broke in my lord laughing; “you, a young lord—come.”
They went in.
A word about us. We were Eastern men from the island; my lord, old, burned-out,—though not with years,—restless—deliberately—silent, kind, secretive, and wise in some old-gained sad kind knowledge of men. So we had cruised where my lord was quiet, seeming content, till in the fog opportunity brought us new friends, at whose sunny, lonely town we were guests. When my lord had told his host of the woman to whom he was betrothed, idly, we men who stood by watching noticed them keenly, for we were interested in my lord and the why of his choosing the maiden. She, the daughter of a timid lord, her mother dead—a fair thing who gave flowers to boys in fun.
This is what we were.
Now, whether it was the beer we drank that night, or whether the long rest—though I think the long rest—the men began to speak in loud voices with sea-tales. Now, the young lord, his slim right hand on the great mug, laughed to my lord: “Let us go and make some sea-tales!” and laughing, raised his mug to his lips, glancing merrily at his guest over the top as he drank.
“But your ship,” said my lord looking at him.
“Let us go in yours, mine is too battered,” answered young Erik. “Ah—that was a joy—the fog and the shouting and the grey ships!”
His face grew pale in the light with excitement. My lord seemed reluctant.
“Yes”; he said. “Where shall we go?”
“There—here—anywhere!” cried young Erik, jumping to his feet and waving his beer-mug to three points of the horizon.