He repeated the words as the boat passed the Battery, and he saw the German Artillery Corps--those brave scientific soldiers who had done so much for their adopted land--drawn up on the esplanade of Castle Garden.

And once again, as he listened to their farewell salvo, drowning the distant cheers sent after him across the widening water.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

BLANCHE AND SABINA.

On parting from the pier most of the passengers forsook the upper deck, and went scattering to their state-rooms.

A few remained lingering above; among them the gentleman to whom belonged the golden-haired girl, and the servant with skin of kindred colour.

He did not stay, as one who takes a leaving look at his native land. It was evidently not his. In his own features, and those of the child held in his hand, there was an unmistakable expression of "Englishism," as seen in its nobler type.

The coloured domestic, more like America, was still not of the "States."

Smaller and more delicate features, with a peculiar sparkle of the eye, told of a West Indian origin--a negress for her mother, with a white man, perhaps Frenchman or Spaniard, for her father.

Any doubts about the gentleman's nationality would have been dispelled by listening to a brief dialogue that soon after occurred between him and a fourth personage who appeared upon the scene.

This last was a young fellow in dark coat and trousers, the coat having flap-pockets outside. The style betokened him a servant--made further manifest by the black leathern cockade upon his hat.

He had just come from below.

Stepping up to the gentleman, and giving the unmistakable salute, he pronounced his master's name:

"Sir George!"

"What is it, Freeman?"

"They are stowing the luggage between decks, Sir George; and want to know what pieces your excellency wishes to be kept for the state-rooms.

I've put aside the black bag and the yellow portmanteau, and the large one with Miss Blanche's things. The bullock trunk? Is it to go below, Sir George?"

"Why, yes--no. Stay! What a bother! I must go down myself. Sabina!

keep close by the child. Here, Blanche! you can sit upon this cane seat; and Sabina will hold the umbrella over you. Don't move away from here till I come back."

Sir George's assiduous care may be understood, by saying that Blanche was his daughter--his only child.

Laying hold of the brass baluster-rail, and sliding his hand along it; he descended the stair, followed by Freeman.

Blanche sat down as directed; the mulatto opening a light silk umbrella and holding it over her head. It was not raining; only to protect her from the sun.

Looking at Blanche, one could not wonder at Sir George being so particular. She was a thing to be shielded. Not that she appeared of delicate health, or in any way fragile. On the contrary, her form showed strength and rotundity unusual for a girl of thirteen. She was but little over it.

Perhaps it was her complexion he was thinking of. It certainly appeared too precious to be exposed to the sun.

And yet the sun had somewhere played upon, without spoiling it. Rather was it improved by the slight embrowning, as the bloom enriches the skin of the apricot. He seemed to have left some of his rays amidst the tresses of her hair, causing them to shine like his own glorious beams.

She remained upon the seat where her father had left her. The position gave her a fine view of the bay and its beautiful shores, of Staten Island and its villas, picturesquely placed amidst groves of emerald green.

But she saw, without observing them. The ships, too, swept past unobserved by her; everything, even the objects immediately around her upon the deck of the steamer. Her eyes only turned toward one point-- the stairway--where people were ascending, and where her father had gone down.

And looking that way, she sat silent, though not abstracted. She was apparently watching for some one to come up.

"Miss Blanche," said the mulatto, observing this, "you no need look, you fader not back for long time yet. Doan you 'member in dat Wes' Indy steamer how much trouble dem baggages be? It take de governor great while sort 'em."

"I'm not looking for father," responded the child, still keeping her eyes sternward.

"Who den? You ben tinkin' 'bout somebody."

"Yes, Sabby, I'm thinking of _him_. I want to see how he looks when near. Surely he will come up here?"

"Him! Who you 'peak' 'bout, Miss Blanche? De cap'in ob the ship?"

"Captain of the ship! Oh, no, no! That's the captain up there. Papa told me so. Who cares to look at an old fellow like that?"

While speaking, she had pointed to Skipper Shannon, seen pacing upon the "bridge."

"Den who you mean?" asked the perplexed Sabina.

"Oh, Sabby! sure you might know."

"'Deed Sabby doan know."

"Well, that gentleman the people cheered so. A man told papa they were all there to take leave of him. Didn't they take leave of him in an odd way? Why, the men in big beards actually kissed him. I saw them kiss him. And the young girls! you saw what they did, Sabby. Those girls appear to be very forward."

"Dey war' nothin' but trash--dem white gals."

"But the gentleman? I wonder who he is? Do you think it's a prince?"

The interrogatory was suggested by a remembrance. Only once in her life before had the child witnessed a similar scene. Looking out of a window in London, she had been spectator to the passage of a prince. She had heard the hurrahs, and seen the waving of hats and handkerchiefs.

Alike, though with perhaps a little less passion--less true enthusiasm.

Since then, living a tranquil life in one of the Lesser Antilles--of which her father was governor--she had seen little of crowds, and less of such excited assemblages as that just left behind. It was not strange she should recall the procession of the prince.

And yet how diametrically opposite were the sentiments that actuated the two scenes of which she had been spectator! So much that even the West Indian woman--the child of a slave--knew the difference.

"Prince!" responded Sabina, with a disdainful toss of the head, that proclaimed her a loyal "Badian." "Prince in dis 'Merica country!

Dere's no sich ting. Dat fella dey make so much muss 'bout, he only a 'publican."

"A publican?"

"Yes, missy. You dem hear shout, 'Vive de publique!' Dey all 'publicans in dis Unite States."

The governor's daughter was nonplussed; she knew what publicans were.

She had lived in London where there is at least one in every street-- inhabiting its most conspicuous house. But a whole nation of them?

"All publicans!" she exclaimed, in surprise. "Come, Sabby, you're telling me a story."