’Twas not in me to complain that it should be so; for the ways of women are beyond my understanding.
Presently the old man rose from his seat, and without a word left us to ourselves. Ludar then narrated how, when the Gerona broke up, he had fallen near a broken oar, which held him up and enabled him to reach land almost without a bruise. For a long while he lay in the darkness, not knowing where he was; but when day broke, he found himself in the deep cave that goes under the castle, a prisoner there by the rising tide, and with no means of escape. For to stem the waves at the mouth was hopeless, and by no manner of shouting and calling could he make his presence known to anyone outside.
So all day, faint with hunger, he had perched on a ledge just beyond reach of the tide, and not till evening, when the wind, and with it the water, subsided, was he able to swim out and come to land at the foot of the very path up which, long months ago, he had led the party who recovered Dunluce for the McDonnells.
His story was scarce ended when a cheering without called us to the courtyard, where the news of the return of Sir Ludar had gathered the McDonnells, eager with shouts and music to welcome him.
But Ludar would by no means go out till his father arrived to command it. Then it did us, who loved him, good to see him stand there, with the maiden’s hand in his, receiving the homage of his clansmen.
While thus we stood, there was an uproar at the gate, as two men fought their way through the throng and approached us.
“Jove and the Muses grant their beloved son a soul to celebrate so notable a festival in the strains which it deserves!” cried the poet, shaking all over with emotion, and his eyes dim with tears. “Achilles hath his Briseïs; Odysseus his lost Penelope, and all four have to their hand an Orpheus (woe’s me! without his Eurydice), to chant their fortunes. Oh! my noble son of a wolf, and thou, my Hollander, how I rejoice to see you, and to hand to your arms the nymphs of whom one day, perhaps, it shall be accounted to their honour that they were nourished on the dews of Parnassus by the Muses’ most unworthy disciple.”
“A nice dry nurse you be!” said Jack Gedge. “’Tis a mercy the fair ladies have their ear-drums sound after half-a-year of your noisy buzzing in them. Sir Ludar, by your leave, captain, you hold in your hand what you gave me in charge to keep for you; so I owe you nought but my farewell.”
“Nay,” said Ludar. “By heaven, we are all debtors to you both, and shall compel you to own it. And since you both and my comrade here be Englishmen, let me tell you that, for your sakes, I shall salute your Queen’s ensign when I next see it.”
That night the poet related to me with much embellishment and flourish all that had passed since the maids left London, most of which I already knew, yet was not loth to hear again from his lips.