"Excuse me," said he. "It's small, I know; but I can't push things quite
so far as that. I don't wish any sentimental business, to sit by your
hearth a white-haired wanderer, and all that. 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
tholepins 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 colors of Garibaldi for the liberation of the Tyrol.