In Search of Mademoiselle. Gibbs George

of common, his talk would then become louder and more forward until there was at last no opportunity for talk from others. And as his speech grew louder, that of Goddard, the blasphemer, would become more subdued, until, for a time perhaps, but few words – none of them of saintly origin – came from his lips. The torrent of the discourse of Smith, halted for a moment, gained by delay a stronger flow and burst forth the more sturdily, until burnt up at last in the flame of its own enthusiasm. Yet Job Goddard would not be denied for long, and so ingenious were his powers that his mutterings would at last resolve themselves into combinations of words so new and surprising that Salvation Smith even was soon agape with something very near to admiration.

      Much of this must have happened after I left them. In the hostel was a crowd of seamen and broken down gentlemen. The swords of these cavaliers were their only fortune, and they were about to sail on the voyage with the Huguenot Ribault to Florida. Many of them, as will be seen, I came to know and so learned from them also of the things set forth hereafter. They were for the most part of a religious inclination, though not a few had no more religion in their hearts than Goddard. They were all reckless, and in one last drinking bout were taking leave of home and France. The alicant had passed but half a dozen times and Goddard had sat patiently through a discourse from his companion upon the lives of the martyrs until his flesh and blood could stand it no longer. He lifted his pot and in a tone of lusty confidence which might easily have been heard from one end of the room to the other said, grinning broadly,

      “Bad eatin’ and drinkin’ to the Spanish, Jem Smith! Uneasy sleepin’ and wakin’ for King Philip! A cross-buttock and a broken head for Dyago! And a good fight at the last for our pains! Drain it, lad, – you’ll never have a better.”

      “Amen!” said Salvation, piously. “And thanks for the victory of the Griffin, Job Goddard. There was never surer mark of His handiwork than yonder cruise when the righteous were uplifted and confusion came to the enemies of His Gospels.”

      “Amen again,” said Goddard, “and be damned to them!” He rose to his feet and looking around him clattered his pot loudly against the table.

      “Look ye, lads, an ye like not barleycorn, a pot of sack against the chill of the night! An’ if ye cannot drink in English, I’ll warrant your French throats no less slippery from frog eatin’.”

      “Morbleu, non,” said one, “I am as dry as the main yard of the Trinity.”

      “To the Great Griffin, then,” said Goddard loudly, “an’ the good crowns the San Cristobal sells for, with some for Bess and some for we! Look you! See how they glitter – less bright for the black head on ’em, but welcome enough in the taproom – where with a whole heart we can drink confusion to the Spanish king and every other sneaking cat of a – ”

      “Sh – ” said Smith in a low voice. He had just reason enough to know that they were disobeying orders. “For the love o’ God stow your gaff, lad, there are like as not some of the thumb-screwing whelps even here.” But the crowd of seamen were amused at the Englishman and would not be denied. They set their flagons down with a clatter to hear Job Goddard, with the help of one of their number, in a bluff, hearty way tell of the taking of the San Cristobal. The story was strangely interlarded with oaths and devout expressions, half French, half English, but all bearing the mark of approval among the Huguenot company, who did me the honor to rattle their pots again right merrily at the account of my wrestling bout with the Spaniard.

      Salvation Smith, enjoying in his own way the importance of his friend and ally, who for once had drowned out his own eloquence, cast aside all caution and sought to enhance the effect of Job’s remarks by frequent and timely expressions of approval. He walked about, smiling broadly, causing the pots to be filled as often as they fell half empty.

      So intent was the crowd upon the performance of the seaman Goddard and so wrapped up in their drinking bouts that they failed to notice three men who sat at a corner table sipping at their liquor. All three listened intently to Goddard’s tale and once or twice looks of surprise passed between them. As it went on they lifted their pots to hide their lips and leaned well forward, whispering together, then listening to catch the words of the seaman, as his tongue, unloosed, swung merrily in the wind of anecdote.

      After a while when he paused for a moment there was a commotion in another part of the room. A slender spark of the company of Ribault, with a well-worn doublet, but wearing a silver ear-ring, a nicely trimmed beard and other marks of gentle taste, was hoisted upon his legs and sang unsteadily a verse which in English goes somewhat like this: —

      “Here’s to every merry lass —

      Here’s to her who’s shy, sirs, —

      Here’s an overflowing glass

      To any roguish eye, sirs;

      Be she sweet or be she scold,

      Be her temper warm or cold,

      Be she tall or be she small,

      Naught can we but love her.

      A-dieu – a-dieu —

      A-dieu, belle Marie-e!

      Be she stout or be she lean —

      Be she pauper, be she queen —

      Be she fine or be she jade —

      Be she wife or be she maid —

      Here’s a toast to woman;

      Here’s a health to woman!

      A-dieu – A-dieu —

      Adieu, belle Marie-e!”

      The last two lines he sang in a melancholy drawl, holding his pot up and looking at it with one eye shut. This caused much applause and loud clapping. To this he tried to respond with more spirit, with a song and chorus which they afterwards sang frequently upon the ships. It was very fine and had a martial ring.

      “I drink my wine

      While others pine,

      And toast a lady fair —

      Chorus: And toast a lady fair!

      And to the eyes

      Of her I prize,

      In Catharine’s vintage rare —

      Chorus: In Catharine’s vintage rare!

      I draw my steel

      For woe or weal

      With foemen of my mettle —

      Chorus: With foemen of my mettle!

      And teach the wight

      Who fears to fight

      To keep his blade in fettle

      Chorus: To keep his blade in fettle!”

      When the refrain had died away and the Frenchman had dropped back upon his bench, Goddard, in a fine spirit of amity, jumped again to his feet, trying to sing. He had no more notion of tune than an anchor stock, but roared in an ear-splitting way:

      “Then fill a rousing cup wi’ me,

      For there be naught to pay!

      And drink to wee-man as she be

      From France to far Cathay!”

      He had reached a state of mind in which he cared little enough for king, priest, or the devil, and Salvation was in little better part, striving to preach a sermon in French, of which language he had no notion whatever. In the middle of his salty verse, Goddard was set upon by several of the younger men and lifted bodily upon the table. There he stood for a moment swaying awkwardly from one foot to the other, blinking at the light which swung to the rafters a foot from his nose.

      Then he shouted,

      “Mounseers, my voice is like the run of the topsail haulyard pollys. I can’t sing – an’ – blood an’ ouns! – I won’t sing.”

      “Par la mort! try it again, try it, mon