"But see, Antonia, see—yonder cometh the kind sun to fright away shadows. Old Sol shall be an omen of happiness to come. Let us sit here and warm us in his glory. So,—now hearken to me."
Thus seated in the growing warmth and splendour of this rising sun, Adam told his scheme in few words, whereat she sprang afoot, gasping in breathless whisper:
"No,—ah no, I—dare not."
"You must, Antonia."
"'Twould be impossible."
"Not with me beside you."
"They ... I should be found out, and then——"
"Not if you are quick-witted and able as I do believe you, Antonia. Besides, I shall instruct you very fully. Do this and 'stead of fear o' death shall presently be joy of life,—and, whiles I live, no one shall anyways harm you. And this I swear on ... the white head of my dead father! So now, wilt do this, Antonia, and trust all to me and thine own mother-wit?"
"Yes! Yes!" she whispered, reaching him both hands in pretty, instinctive gesture. "Yes, I will trust you.... I do, and shall so long as you be Adam."
"Then go with me indoors before the house is astir and I'll tell you more."
"Yes, Adam. And when ... when must I..."
"Not until I give the word, nor stir abroad even then until—you hear me whistle."
"Ay, but what shall you whistle?"
"Do you know this merry song called 'Sellinger's Round'?"
"To be sure, Adam."
And presently back went they side by side through a world all bright now and glad with the piping chorus of birds; and in Antonia's grey eyes, instead of terror and despair, was the dawn-light of Hope.
CHAPTER VI
HOW ADAM BECAME PENFEATHER, AND ANTONIA, ANTHONY
The three had finished breakfast and now, leaning back in his chair, Absalom glanced from one to other of his companions and propounded this question, solemn of tone yet with a twinkle in his blue eyes.
"Brothers and messmates both, resolve we now this troublesome question of curst, troublous subject, to wit,—what of—our child?"
"Eh—child?" repeated Captain Smy. "D'ye mean——"
"The female child, shipmate, foisted upon our fatherly care by young Adam here. I mean this nymph o' bloodshed, this dryad o' slaughter, this soft-spoke goddess o' death! What must we do with her?"
"Leave her snug here with Mistress Martha," answered Smy.
"Ay, ay," nodded Absalom, "'tis so I think. And what say you, Adam?"
"Take her with us."
Now at this, Captain Smy opened grim lips yet spake not; Absalom, starting erect, swung round to stare at the speaker, while Adam finding his pewter yet held some ale, finished it and wiped his lips daintily on snowy handkerchief.
"Smy, you heard him," said Absalom, still staring on Adam 'neath cocked eyebrows, "he's neither mad nor a fool and yet talks like both—or I'm a stockfish, damme!"
"Moreover and finally," quoth Captain Smy, at his very grimmest, "a rule o' The Brotherhood is—no women aboard-ship. And 'tis good rule and nowise to be broke."
"However," said Adam, "out of England she must go,—this England where the Law never rests, for if she remain I am persuaded she will be retaken—and then——"
"Nay, bethink you," said Smy, grimly pious, "we leave her in the good Lord's care."
"Ay," nodded Adam, "but how if the Lord hath set her in ours?" Now at this, Absalom looked from the speaker's pale, strange face with its firm mouth and bright, steady eyes, to Smy's lean visage; but, before he might speak, Adam rose and took the long rapier that dangled from his chair-back.
"Look at this!" said he, unsheathing the narrow, glittering blade. "This is my father's sword, he showed me how to use it to mine own defence and the protection of suchlike weaklings as myself. See my white hair that grief hath bestowed upon me for a memorial of this father that feared no thing under heaven save only dishonour, and who dying so shamefully, left me—only this sword and this white hair to mind me how I must be faithful and still keep his honour clean and bright. Well, sirs, how may I so do and yet leave this maid, this child, this innocent, to be hunted down ... strangled in a rope even as he was,—or perchance dragged down to shame of mind and body? I cannot and will not, for my so honoured father his noble sake. Therefore she sails with us or I bide with her in England!"
"Then," quoth Captain Smy, harshly, "bide ye must, for woman aboard-ship is death and worse."
"And what," demanded Absalom bitterly, "what o' the sacred oath ye swore, the Oath o' Brotherhood, what o' this?"
"Master Troy, to save this innocent from gallows or viler thing, I will break a thousand such oaths and abide the consequences with good heart."
"Talking o' hearts, lad," Absalom retorted, "you aren't fallen souse in love wi' this wench, eh?"
"Now this," retorted Adam, scowling, "this is very base thought in you, Mr. Troy! No, sir, I have not. All I do for her I would do for any defenceless creature, 'tis duty, sir laid on me by memory of ... my father."
"And damme," exclaimed Absalom, "but I believe thee and so crave thy pardon,—'twas indeed unworthy thought."
"Nathless," growled Smy, "this girl must and shall not with us!"
"Ay, ay, 'tis so I say!" nodded Absalom. "For lookee, Adam, a ship is vile place for any woman, ay and most especially this ship, the London Merchant, where there is like to be some unlovely business,—except matters go better than I can hope. Of the which I had best, it seems, give thee some notice that you may——"
But at this moment in through the open casement came the rosy, smiling face of the young man Abnegation Mings.
"Ho, Cap'n Lom," quoth he, "Sir Benjamin Trigg be in the offing, standing in and bearing down on we, aboard of a black 'oss."
"Ha, d'ye say so, Abny lad? Why very well. Smy, do you go meet him, what time I warn young Adam. Ay, there he is,—hark to the bellowing jackass!" And indeed from the stable yard now rose clatter of horsehoofs and voice of a booming arrogance very loud and commanding:
"House-ho! Where's everybody? Stand by to take my horse somebody. Hell's fury, am I to be served?"
Smy scowled and went striding away while Absalom, leaning across the table, jerked head towards the sunny garden, saying:
"Yonder cometh Master Hector Peevish, in velvet and lace, a very gentlemanly hellfire roarer, Adam, a swashing blusterer, a yelping dog whose bark is worse than his bite. But, mark this, Adam,—he is our—means to an end, though little he knows it! Now mark me again,—afore any man of us may claim his share of any treasure that may bless our enterprise, his name must be writ down in Articles, so down your name must go. But, Adam, should he blast your eyes or curse your hide, you shall take it smiling cheerily, and in good part,—if not, then do your best to out-curse and down-roar him,—do anything save to stand mumchance and meek. Is 't understood?"
"Yes," answered Adam, pulling on the close-fitting seaman's bonnet Absalom had bestowed to hide his silvery hair. "Yes, I understand." So, when he had belted his father's sword about his so meagre form, he followed whither he was led. To a neighbouring room where at table beside the open lattice sat a personage bedecked in magnificence, as it were, from the crown of wide-brimmed hat with its gemmed brooch and noble sweep of feather, to spurred heels; a very modish though somewhat rotund personage, for his face, eyes, nose and form were all of a certain roundness. But, though plump, this personage was also petulant, for, at mere sight of small, pallid Adam, he recoiled violently, stamped loudly and bounced in his chair.
"'Od's m' life—what's this?" he bellowed, stabbing at Adam with the long feather of the quill pen he had been using. "'Swounds and blood, Absalom, never tell me you'd 'list this little misery, this poor atomy? 'Tis but shadow of a shade,—remove it—take it away, out o' my sight!"