“Now by every saint upon the calendar, and the list is longer than the muster-bill of a line-of-battle ship, it’s all over with me—I’m lost—destroyed—undone. Who is that angel in woman’s form? Speak!” exclaimed the stranger, passionately.
“The loveliest girl in Grenada,” returned his companion.
“Pshaw! tell me not what I know already—but her name? her family? Come, out with all you know, man.”
“It’s a long story,” replied the civilian.
“No matter,” returned his friend, “tell me anything connected with that charming devotee, and I’ll listen although the tale lasted to eternity.”
“Captain,” replied the other,—and he whispered the title by which he addressed him softly in his gay companion’s ear,—“‘ware love!—Cupid himself would find no welcome on board a vessel called the Flambeau.”
“Out with the story!” exclaimed the stranger; “or I’ll break through the procession, and ask it of the sweet girl herself.”
“Well,” said the civilian, with a smile, “to keep you clear of the Inquisition for an insult to a fwourite saint like blessed Agatha, I will tell you all I know. Sit down upon this marble pediment, and we can speak without any one hearing us. Marked you the greyheaded commander, dressed in a blue uniform, with two crosses at his breast?”
“To be sure I did: the worn-out admiral who bore a candle in the crowd.”
“Well, the taper is fitter than the sword for the hand of age to carry; no doubt, many a day since, the old gentleman has been laid up in ordinary.”