At every soft puff, away flew the
blue-devils, pagan, or Christian, or even scientific; and the brightness
of the sleep-forbidden eyes returned, and the sweetness of the smile
so long gone hence in dread of trespass. Father Bartholomew, neither
eating, drinking, nor smoking, till the sun should set--for this was one
of his fast-days--was heartily pleased with his guest's good cheer, and
smiled with the large benevolence which a lean face expresses with more
decision than a plump and jolly one. "And now, my son," he began again,
in Latin more fluent and classical than the sailor could compass after
Cicero thrown by, "thou hast returned thanks to Almighty God, for which
I the more esteem thee. Oblige me, therefore, if it irk thee not, among
smoke of the genial Nicotium, by telling thy tale, and explaining what
hard necessity hath driven thee to these distant shores. Fear not, for
thou seest a lover of England, and hater of France the infidel."
Then Scudamore, sometimes hesitating and laughing at his own bad Latin,
told as much of his story as was needful, striving especially to make
clear the importance of his swift return, and his fear that even so it
would be too late.
"Man may believe himself too late, but the Lord ariseth early," the good
priest answered, with a smile of courage refreshing the heart of the
Englishman. "Behold how the hand of the Lord is steadfast over those who
serve him! To-morrow I might have been far away; to-day I am in time to
help thee.
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