Perhaps an hour passed before she laid aside the book. ‘What are the chances, do you think, of that thing being already cocked?’ ‘Probably not even loaded,’ suggested Hilary hopefully. “David,” she said, “you are not a coward, are you?” “I do not know,” he muttered. Cut to pieces —slashed—bloodied. That Frenchie, that’s who she is. It was maddening to be made to feel that he was in any way the inferior of this cool, self-possessed young woman, whose eyes seemed for a moment to scintillate with scorn. " "May be not," replied the old sailor, drily; "but you'll find it too stiff for you tonight, anyhow. And his scarlet coat had nothing to do with it, as Hilary was fond of recounting, for he had been in civilian clothes when they met, as he was tonight.
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