He was steering now, his eyes on the battered topsails in the mists
before him; and in those eyes a glitter of swords. Had his mother or
Gwen been there, they could have told from that frosty calm, those
jealous-drooping lids, that Master Boy meant mischief.

And so it was.

This fat fellow with the heaving shoulders on the thwart before him,
this chap with the crease across his bald neck, and the black sweat
trickling from his hair, had insulted him.

As woman, he was bent upon revenge; as man, he would go warily, striking
only to strike home.

"That was a fine horse you flogged to death," he began tranquilly,
trailing his fingers in the dead green waters.

"Yes, sir," panted the other, thrusting at the oars. "I don't spare
spur when I'm ridin agin the French. I'm a man, and an Englishman--not
a pink-faced, girl-eyed booby togged out in a cocked hat and a tin
dagger, calling meself a King's officer."

"I guessed that you were not one of us," replied the boy delicately.
"Your manners are too distinguished. But tell me a little more about
your ride. You seemed in rather a hurry. I take it you were riding
for a drink."

The great man swung round. His whole life seemed to have stopped short,
and now hung behind his eyes--an appalling shadow.