“Now by Saint Andrew,” exclaimed he, “are ye kelpie or pirate?”

“Neither, captain,” I replied, smiling as the comical end of it came up to me, “but a young gentleman in misfortune.”

“Hoots!” says he, frowning at the grinning half-circle about us, “it’s daft ye are—­”

But there he paused, and took of me a second sizing.  How he got at my birth behind my tangled mat of hair and wringing linsey-woolsey I know not to this day.  But he dropped his Scotch and merchant-captain’s manner, and was suddenly a French courtier, making me a bow that had done credit to a Richelieu.

“Your servant, Mr.—­”

“Richard Carvel, of Carvel Hall, in his Majesty’s province of Maryland.”

He seemed sufficiently impressed.

“Your very humble servant, Mr. Carvel.  ’Tis in faith a privilege to be able to serve a gentleman.”

He bowed me toward his cabin, and then in sharp, quick tones he gave an order to his mate to get under way, and I saw the men turning to the braces with wonder in their eyes.  My own astonishment was as great.  And so, with my clothes sucking to my body and a trail of water behind me like that of a wet walrus, I accompanied the captain aft.  His quarters were indeed a contrast to those of Griggs, being so neat that I paused at the door for fear of profaning them; but was so courteously bid to enter that I came on again.  He summoned a boy from the round house.

“William,” said he, “a bottle of my French brandy.  And my compliments to Mr. MacMuir, and ask him for a suit of clothes.  You are a larger man than I, Mr. Carvel,” he said to me, “or I would fit you out according to your station.”

I was too overwhelmed to speak.  He poured out a liberal three fingers of brandy, and pledged me as handsomely as I had been an admiral come thither in mine own barge, instead of a ragged lad picked off a piratical slaver, with nothing save my bare word and address.  ’Twas then I had space to note him more particularly.  His skin was the rich colour of a well-seasoned ship’s bell, and he was of the middle height, owned a slight, graceful figure, tapering down at the waist like a top, which had set off a silk coat to perfection and soured the beaus with envy.  His movements, however, had all the decision of a man of action and of force.  But his eye it was took possession of me—­an unfathomable, dark eye, which bore more toward melancholy than sternness, and yet had something of both.  He wore a clean, ruffled shirt, an exceeding neat coat and breeches of blue broadcloth, with plate burnished buttons, and white cotton stockings.  Truly, this was a person to make one look twice, and think oftener.  Then, as I went to pledge him, I, too, was caught for his name.

“Paul,” said he; “John Paul, of the brigantine John, of Kirkcudbright, in the West India trade.”

“Captain Paul—­” I began.  But my gratitude stuck fast in my throat and flowed out of my eyes.  For the thought of the horrors from which he had saved me for the first time swept over me; his own kind treatment overcame me, and I blubbered like a child.  With that he turned his back.