“Then tell me what you think.”
“As I have said, I know nothing. I do not know whence he comes. Some say he is a Dane, some that he is an Irishman. I cannot tell, I know nothing, but I think his intonation is Irish, and I have heard that there is a family of that name in Ireland. But this is all guesswork. One thing I do know, he speaks French like a native. Then, as to his character, I believe him to be a man of ungovernable temper, who, when his blood is roused will stick at nothing. I think him a man of very few scruples. But he has done liberal things—he is open-handed, that all say. A hard liver, and with a rough tongue, and yet with some of the polish of a gentleman; a man with the passions of a devil, but not without in him some sparks of divine light. That is what I think him to be. And if you ask me further, whether I think him a man calculated to make you happy—I say decidedly that he is not.”
Rarely before in his life had Mr. Menaida spoken with such decision.
“He has been kind to me,” said Judith. “Very kind.”
“Because he is in love with you.”
“And gentle—”
“Have you ever done aught to anger him!”
“Yes. I threw him down and broke his arm and collar-bone.”
“And won his heart by so doing.”
“Uncle Zachie, he is a smuggler.”