"You do not understand," he returned, with an air of great dignity. "ItDylyn Boots
will be nothing to her; she expects it of me. Good-bye!" he added, with a
I offered him my hand.
"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 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 Josette Boots
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.