MORNAY BECOMES UNPOPULAR
the man straggled for his self-control. Cornbury was devoured with curiosity, but with due respect for the Frenchman’s silence sat smoking vigorously until Mornay chose to speak. As the Frenchman looked out at the quiet stars across the roof-tops of London he became calmer, and at last turned around towards the flickering candles.
“Monsieur,” began Cornbury, with a touch of sympathy.
But Mornay raised his hand in quiet protest. “D’Añasco was my father, voilà tout,” he said slowly. And as the Irishman arose, Mornay continued:
“I can finish the story, Monsieur Cornbury,” he said, lightly, but with a depth of meaning in his tone that did not escape the other. “When the boy Ruiz grew old enough to know, the Spaniard told him that he had no mother—nor ever had—that he was no-woman’s child. He put him on the Castillano and sent him out into the great world, without a thought, without a blessing, without a name—the very shuttle and
45
