and wistfulness, neither of which ingredients the boy discerned, so absorbed was he in the task of apology, always a hard one for self-conscious youth.
Larone and the captain he found by the wheel, deep in consultation, and glancing now and then at that vast umbrella of smoke aloft, rotating slowly now, and weirdly muffling the moon.
Haltingly but with a winning honesty, the boy asked forgiveness. The other, in his graceful way, accepted the apology, accenting the gesture whimsically with that old quizzical smile of his.
"Think nothing of that, Monsieur. It was natural. Anyone would have felt the same way."
Looking out at sea, he went on slowly, and with a little grip and tenseness in each tone and word:
"I know you will be good to her. That is all I ask."
He turned then and faced him fully.
"You can sail the seven seas, but you'll never find a lovelier woman if you voyage as long as the Flying Dutchman himself—but what were you asking, Captain?"
"What are the risks, my friend?" the skipper repeated.
"I think we are safe for a few days. All the signs would point to that, and I have sailed not only the Caribbees but in many other places where surly fellows like the giant up there, sleep for a while, wake for a quiet smoke, turn over again, and then at last when the devil's nightmare is on them rise and stalk down the mountain, destroying whole cities and islands as fair as this. But—with the women I would not risk an hour."
