Quite
the contrary: I hope to God I shall never again clap eyes on
either one of you."
"Well, God bless you, Northmour!" I said heartily.
"Oh, yes," he returned.
He walked down the beach; and the man who was ashore gave him an
arm on board, and then shoved off and leaped into the bows himself.
Northmour took the tiller; the boat rose to the waves, and the oars
between the thole-pins sounded crisp and measured in the morning
air.
They were not yet half-way to the RED EARL, and I was still
watching their progress, when the sun rose out of the sea.
One word more, and my story is done. Years after, Northmour was
killed fighting under the colours of Garibaldi for the liberation
of the Tyrol.
A LODGING FOR THE NIGHT - A STORY OF FRANCIS VILLON
It was late in November 1456. The snow fell over Paris with
rigorous, relentless persistence; sometimes the wind made a sally
and scattered it in flying vortices; sometimes there was a lull,
and flake after flake descended out of the black night air, silent,
circuitous, interminable. To poor people, looking up under moist
eyebrows, it seemed a wonder where it all came from. Master
Francis Villon had propounded an alternative that afternoon, at a
tavern window: was it only Pagan Jupiter plucking geese upon
Olympus? or were the holy angels moulting? He was only a poor
Master of Arts, he went on; and as the question somewhat touched
upon divinity, he durst not venture to conclude.
Pages:
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307