The prow of the boat here grated on the beach, and a sailor jumped ashore with a line in his hand.
“Wait a minute, lads!” cried Northmour; and then lower and to my private ear: “You had better say nothing of all this to her,” he added.
“On the contrary!” I broke out, “she shall know everything that I can tell.”
“You do not understand,” he returned, with an air of great dignity. “It will be nothing to her; she expects it of me. Good-bye!” he added, with a nod.
I offered him my hand.
“Excuse me,” said he. “It’s small, I know; but I can’t push things quite so far as that. I don’t wish any sentimental business, to sit by your hearth a white-haired wanderer, and all that. Quite the contrary: I hope to God I shall never again clap eyes on either one of you.”
“Well, God bless you, Northmour!” I said heartily.
“Oh, yes,” he returned.
He walked down the beach; and the man who was ashore gave him an arm on board, and then shoved off and leaped into the bows himself. Northmour took the tiller; the boat rose to the waves, and the oars between the thole-pins sounded crisp and measured in the morning air.
They were not yet half-way to the Red Earl, and I was still watching their progress, when the sun rose out of the sea.