The gallant little Frenchman smiled in acquiescence, and, taking off his
glazed hat with the air of a courtier, said, "_Pardieu!_ certainly; why
not? Jean Marie would lose his pilotage rather than hurry a lady."

Going aft to the raised cabin on the quarter-deck, the captain softly
opened the starboard door, and looking in, said, in a kindly tone,

"It is time to part, my friends; the pilot says we are losing the
strength of the tide, so we must kiss and be off."

Two lovely women were sitting, hand clasped in hand, on the sofa of the
transom. You saw they were sisters of nearly the same age, and a little
boy and girl tumbling about their knees showed they were mothers--young
mothers too, for the soft, full, rounded forms of womanhood, with the
flush of health and matronly pride tinged their cheeks, while masses of
dark hair banded over their smooth brows and tearful eyes told the story
at a glance. They rose together as the captain spoke.

"_Adieu, chere Rosalie!_ we shall soon meet again, let us hope, never
more to part."

"Adieu, Nathalie! adieu, dearest sister! adieu! adieu!"

The loving arms were twined around each other in the last embrace; the
tears fell like gentle rain, but with smiles of hope and trustfulness
they parted.

"Ay," said the sturdy skipper, as he stood with eyes brimful of moisture
regarding the sisters, "ay, trust me for bringing you together again.
Well do I remember when you were little wee things, when I brought you
to France after the earthquake in Jamaica; just like these little rogues
here"--and he laid his brawny hands on the heads of the children, who
clung to each other within the folds of their mothers' dresses; "but
never fear, my darlings," he went on, "you will meet happily again. Ay,
that you shall, if old Jacob Blunt be above land or water."

A boat which was lying alongside the brig shoved off; the little boy,
who had been left on board, was held high above the rail in the arms
of a sturdy negro, while the mother stood beside him, waving her
handkerchief to the boat as it pulled rapidly away toward the shore.

"Man the windlass, lads!" cried the captain. "Mister Binks, brace round
the head-yards, and up with the jib as soon as the anchor's a-weigh."

The windlass clinked as the iron palls caught the strain of the cable,
the anchor was wrenched from its oozy bed, the vessel's head fell off,
and, gathering way, she moved quietly down the River Garonne.

CHAPTER