THE LOVE OF MONSIEUR
his head,” said the drunkard, amid a wild chorus of laughter.
Here a tall figure thrust through the grinning crowd, which gave back a step at the sound of his voice.
“Nom d’un nom!” he cried. “They shiver with the cold. A drink and a dip in the slop-chest is more to the point—eh, captain?” Blackbeard swayed stupidly again, and, with a growl that might have meant anything, rolled aft and down below. The tall man took the lantern and led the way into the forecastle, whither the fugitives followed him. But it was not until they got within the glare of the forecastle lantern that they discovered what manner of man it was to whom they owed this benefaction. He was tall and thin, and his long, bony arms hung heavily from narrow shoulders, which seemed hardly stout enough to sustain their weight. From a thick thatch of tangled beard and hair, a long, scrawny neck thrust forward peeringly, like that of a plucked fowl; and at the end of it a smallish head, with a hooked nose, black, beady eyes, and great, projecting
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