How we sailed with a Poet of the First Water.
Ludar told me, when presently I had revived enough to hear his story, that when the tide turned and I did not appear, the Frenchman laughed and bade them haul the anchor and thank Heaven they were rid of a thief. “Whereat,” said Ludar, “we came to words, and the maiden took your part and besought the fellow to wait a half-hour. But he would hear none of it. He said he was master here, and, if we liked not the ship, we might go out of it. Indeed,” added he, “he had a mind, he said, to put us all out and be rid of so ill a company. Then there was nothing left but to let him have his will, and we sailed. Yet I was not surprised to see you back.”
“And she—she did not deem me a traitor?” I asked.
“That maiden,” said Ludar, gravely, “knows not what traitor means.”
Whereat I felt partly humbled, partly comforted.
“Yes,” said Ludar, “I am glad to have you back, Humphrey, for this voyage bodes uneasily.”
“How do you mean?” I asked.
“Our messmates,” said he (and then I noticed that he wore a sailor’s jacket), “are a scurvy crew, as you will presently discover. The captain already repents that he has taken us. The old nurse is hard to please.” Here he sighed. “The serving man is a fool. And the stranger—”
“Ay, what of him? Who is he?”
“He is a half-witted spark, a fugitive from justice, and, to boot, an impudent coxcomb whom I have had ten minds already to pitch over the ship’s side. He was hidden here on board before we came, having killed a man at Court, he brags, and seeking shelter in Scotland till the storm be past. But here he is.”