She showed him,
when they got up to his room at last, little things Hubert had given
her--carved nuts, a Spanish coin or two, and an ingot of gold--but of
which she would say nothing, but only laugh and nod her head.
Hubert, too, when he saw him that evening seemed full of the same sort of
half-suppressed happiness that shone out now and again suddenly. There he
sat, for hours after supper that night, broader and more sunburnt than
ever, with his brilliant eyes glancing round as he talked, and his sinewy
man's hand, in the delicate creamy ruff, making little explanatory
movements, and drawing a map once or twice in spilled wine on the
polished oak; the three ladies sat forward and watched him breathlessly,
or leaned back and sighed as each tale ended, and Anthony found himself,
too, carried away with enthusiasm again and again, as he looked at this
gallant sea-dog in his gold chain and satin and jewels, and listened to
his stories.
"It was bitter cold," said Hubert in his strong voice, telling them of
Mr. Doughty's death, "on the morning itself: and snow lay on the decks
when we rose. Mr. Fletcher had prepared a table in the poop-cabin, with a
white cloth and bread and wine; and at nine of the clock we were all
assembled where we might see into the cabin: and Mr. Fletcher said the
Communion service, and Mr. Drake and Mr. Doughty received the sacrament
there at his hands. Some of Mr. Doughty's men had all they could do to
keep back their tears; for you know, mother, they were good friends.
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