"What do you mean?" he demanded.
De Veulle made a gesture of disgust in my direction.
"This person, who was in the immediate entourage of the Pretender,
abandoned his leader not long ago and fled to England to seek a
pardon, repudiated and detested by all honorable men in Paris. But
in England his protestations of loyalty were refused, for they
naturally doubted the sincerity of one who wearied so soon of an
unfortunate cause."
"Is this true?" Murray asked me.
"Within reason," I said.
Murray stared from one to the other of us. Plainly he was
whimsically amused by our altercation.
"Stap me, but I rejoice to see that we may look forward to an
entertaining voyage!" he exclaimed. "I had feared 'twould be most
tedious. Are you seeking satisfaction from the gentleman,
_chevalier_?"
"I shall fight him when I choose, on ground of my own choosing,"
replied de Veulle curtly.
"And by no means with small-swords," I jeered.
He gave me a black look.
"You will pray me to kill you if you ever fall into my power,
Ormerod. I can wait until then."
"As you please."
He turned and left us. Murray took snuff very deliberately, first
offering the box to me--which he had not done before--and scrutinized
me politely from head to foot.
"I fear I have been patronizing in my conduct, sir," he observed.
"Pray accept my apologies."
"You are most kind," I said ironically.
"'Twas a perfect disguise," he went on. "And your manner, if I may
say so, was well conceived."
"I thank you."
"In short, I find you an opponent of totally different importance.
You are an opponent?" he shot at me.
"Sure, sir, that is for you to say," I made answer. "So far as I
know at this time we merely happen to be passengers together on this
craft."
He laughed.
"I might have known it!" he exclaimed. "'Twas not like Juggins to
send a bumpkin to Burnet. He hath been an enemy I might not scorn at
any moment. And for a mere merchant he hath extraordinary spirit."
This was said with an air of condescension which irked me.
"You, sir," I remarked, "are no less a merchant. Why pretend to
gentrice?"
A remarkable change came over the man. He ceased from tapping on his
snuff-box. A wave of color suffused his face and neck; his eyes
flashed. He straightened his back and shoulders and frowned upon me.
"Pretend--gentrice!" he rasped. "Sir, you are insulting. I have the
blood of kings in my veins. I am of the Murrays of Cobbielaw. I
quarter my arms with the Keiths, the Humes, the Morays--with every
great family of Scotland. My grandfather four times removed was
James V.
"I pretend to gentrice! I tell you there are few families in Europe
can boast my lineage."
"It hath a Jacobite color to it," I could not resist observing.
He cooled rapidly at this, and the broad Scots accent which had crept
into his speech soon disappeared.
"That is easily said--and easier disproved," he returned. "For
myself, there is no more loyal adherent of King George, as you are
likely to learn, sir, if you plan to backslide in the Pretender's
interest when you reach New York. We provincials may be distant many
thousands of miles from Court, but we are none the less careful in
our devotion to the sovereign."
"So I have been told," I said dryly. "As for Master Juggins, his
grandfather was steward to my father, and still I think him as much
entitled to respect as any man, noble or common, who can prattle of
sixteen quarterings. Family, sir, is not the more creditable for
being talked about."
Murray laughed harshly.
"You have a sour tongue, young sir. I say to you plainly that if
'twere in my interest I might make things uncomfortable for you here.
We may yet sight a King's ship."
It was my turn to laugh.
"When that time comes, we will attend to it. I thank you for warning
me in advance."
He pocketed his snuff-box, swung around on his heel and strode off
across the deck; but he had not reached the mainmast when he seemed
to change his intent and returned to my side.
"Master Ormerod," he said, "I was in error to speak as I did of your
friend. I crave your pardon."
He spoke so simply and unaffectedly as to take my breath away. There
was naught for me to do but accept the apology in the spirit
apparently intended.
"Sure, sir," I replied, "let us forget what hath passed."
"Willingly," he agreed. "There is enough contention, without
belittling the most sacred thing in the world by needless bickering."
"And what is the most sacred thing in the world?" I asked.
"Good blood," he said quite straightforwardly. "But I must go below
now. I have some papers to attend to. And I shall also attempt to
induce the Chevalier de Veulle to preserve the amenities of life
whilst we are restricted to such confined quarters."
"He shall not have to labor against my hostility," I promised as he
departed.
Despite myself, I was taken with the man. His queer vanity, his
unmistakable breeding, his ready wit, the assurance of power and
self-sufficiency which radiated from him and explained, as I thought,
his readiness to admit himself in the wrong, all these joined to
inspire respect for his parts, if not admiration for his character.
During the rest of that day I made myself at home about the ship,
talking with the seamen and their officers and watching vainly for
the lady of the green cloak who had awakened me with her song. But
she kept her cabin until the second afternoon, when we were sailing
easily with a fair wind abeam. I found her then as I returned from a
walk forward, standing with her hand on the poop-railing to steady
her.
"I fear you are a poor sailor," I called to her.
She inclined her head for answer.
"Well, I have met your father," I said, coming to her side, "and I
make no doubt he would present me were he here, so----"
"Sir," she said stiffly, "I have no desire for your company."