To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. “Did you—did you really think that they would take you for a Frenchman?” she exclaimed. Though he walked by the side of the governor, he seldom exchanged a word with him, but appeared wholly absorbed in the contemplations inspired by a broadbowled Dutch pipe. Her patience was waning fast. " "Ah! indeed! what's he doing here?" inquired Jack. Wood," cried David, pouring out a glass of the spirit, and offering it to the carpenter, "that'll warm the cockles of your heart. “Yes.
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