"One moment," said Kingswell, raising his hand.
The Frenchman looked at him keenly and set down the vintage. The Englishman leaned forward.
"Captain d'Antons," he said, scarce above a whisper, "a remark that you made to-day seemed to imply that you considered me a braggart. Your remark was in reference to the brushes between the Pelican and a party of natives during our cruise from the North. Before I take wine with you to-night, I want you to either withdraw or explain your implication."
While Kingswell spoke, the other's eyes flashed and calmed again. Now his dark face wore an even look of puzzled inquiry. His fine eyes, clear now of the expression of cynicism which so often marred them, held the Englishman's without any sign of either embarrassment or anger. His hand returned to the neck of the bottle and lingered there. Lord, but the drama lost an exceptionally fine interpreter when the high seas claimed Pierre d'Antons! The thin, clean-shaven lips trembled—or was it the wavering of the candle-light?
"My friend," he said, softly, "how unfortunate am I in my stupidity—in my blundering use of the English language. Whatever my words were, when I spoke of having already heard of your fights with the savages, my meaning was such that no one would take exception to. Did I use the word heroic, monsieur? Then heroic, noble, was what I meant. An Englishman would have made use of a smaller, a simpler word, perhaps; or would have refrained from any display of admiration. Ah, I am unfortunate in my heritage of French and Spanish blood—the blood that is outspoken both for praise and blame."
Poor, honest Kingswell was shaken with conflicting emotions. His heart told him the man was lying. His eyes assured him that he had been grievously mistaken, not only in the matter of the remark concerning the skirmishes with the Beothics, but in his whole opinion of the Frenchman. His blood surged to his head, and whispered that he was a young fool to be hoodwinked so easily. His brain was sadly uncertain. A twinge of pity for the handsome adventurer—for the love-struck buccaneer—went through him. But it faded at remembrance of Sir Ralph's story. He knew the fellow was playing with him.
"Wine, monsieur?" inquired D'Antons, softly, with a smile of infinite sweetness and shy persuasion.
With a mumbled apology, the young Englishman pushed forward his glass, and the red wine swam to the brim. And all the while he was inwardly cursing his own weakness and the other's strength. He had not the courage to meet the Frenchman's look when they raised their glasses and clinked them across the table. Lord, what a calf he was!
Had he no will of his own? Did he possess neither knowledge of men nor mother wit? Ah, but he rated himself pitilessly as he bent his flushed face over his plate of stew.