But here, perceived by few in the room, a somewhat remarkable thing happened.  Mr. Hanmer, who had stood hitherto like a statue, put out a hand and laid it on Mr. Silk’s shoulder; and there must have been some power in that grip, for Mr. Silk dropped into his seat without another word.

Captain Harry saw it, and broke into a laugh.

“Why, to be sure!  Hanmer’s the very man!  The rest of ye too drunk—­ meaning no offence; and, for me,—­well, for me, you see there’s Sally to be reckoned with.”  He laughed aloud at this simple jocularity.  “Hanmer!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Convoy.”

“If you wish it, sir.”  The lieutenant bowed stiffly; but it was to be noted that the scar, which had hitherto showed white on a bronzed cheek, now reddened on a pale one.

Miss Quiney hesitated.  “The gentleman, as a stranger to Boston—­”

“I’ll answer for Hanmer, ma’am.  You’ll get little talk out of him; but, be there lions at large in Boston, Jack Hanmer’ll lead you past ’em.”

“Like Mr. Greatheart in the parable,” spoke up Ruth, whose eyes had been taking stock of the proposed escort, though he stood in the penumbra and at half the room’s length away.  “Tatty—­if my lord permit and Lieutenant Hanmer be willing—­”

She stood up, and with a curtsy to Sir Oliver, swept to the door.  Miss Quiney pattered after; and Mr. Hanmer, with a bow and hand lifted to the salute, stalked out at their heels.

“I’ll warrant Jack Hanmer ’d liefer walk up to a gun,” swore Captain Harry as the curtain fell behind them.  “He bolts from the sight of Sally.  I’ll make Sally laugh over this.”  But here he pulled himself up and added beneath his voice, “I can’t tell her, though.”

The road as it climbed above the town toward Sabines grew rough and full of pitfalls.  Even by the light of the full moon shining between the elms Miss Quiney’s chairmen were forced to pick their way warily, so that the couple on the side-walk—­which in comparison was well paved—­ easily kept abreast of them.

Ruth walked with the free grace of a Dryad.  The moonlight shone now and again on her face beneath the arch of her wimple; and once, as she glanced up at the heavens, Mr. Hanmer—­interpreting that she lifted her head to a scent of danger, and shooting a sidelong look despite himself—­surprised a lustre as of tears in her eyes; whereupon he felt ashamed, as one who had intruded on a secret.

“Mr. Hanmer.”

“Ma’am?”

“I have a favour to beg. . . .  Is it true, by the way,” she asked mischievously, “that to talk with a woman distresses you?”

“Ma’am—­”

“My name is Ruth Josselin.”

Mr. Hanmer either missed to hear the correction or heard and put it aside.  “Been at sea all my life,” he explained.  “They caught me young.”

Ruth looked sideways at him and laughed—­a liquid little laugh, much like the bubbling note of a thrush.  “You could not have given an answer more pat, sir.  I want to speak to you about a child, caught young and about to be taken to sea.  You are less shy with children, I hope?”