"She did?"
"Such were her words, uncle. She implored me—she used that word, 'implore'—to fly from her, to leave her to her fate, to endeavour to find happiness with some one else."
"Well?"
"But I saw her heart was breaking."
"What o' that?"
"Much of that, uncle. I told her that when I deserted her in the hour of misfortune that I hoped Heaven would desert me. I told her that if her happiness was wrecked, to cling yet to me, and that with what power and what strength God had given me, I would stand between her and all ill."
"And what then?"
"She—she fell upon my breast and wept and blessed me. Could I desert her—could I say to her, 'My dear girl, when you were full of health and beauty, I loved you, but now that sadness is at your heart I leave you?' Could I tell her that, uncle, and yet call myself a man?"
"No!" roared the old admiral, in a voice that made the room echo again; "and I tell you what, if you had done so, d—n you, you puppy, I'd have braced you, and—and married the girl myself. I would, d——e, but I would."
"Dear uncle!"