"I think not, mademoiselle, judging from the title. The article is headed: 'Remarkable Escape of the Brave Captain l'Endurci, Who Was Abducted from French Soil by English Emissaries.'" "It must be very interesting. Pray read it, monsieur." So the young man at once began to read the following account of the brave captain's escape. CHAPTER VIII. THE CAPTAIN'S NARRATIVE. "All France is familiar with the name and heroic valour of Captain l'Endurci, commander of the privateer _Hell-hound_, as well as the large number of prizes which the gallant captain has recently captured from the English. "Only a few days ago Captain l'Endurci returned to Dieppe, with a large three-master belonging to the East India Company, and armed with thirty guns, in tow, while the _Hell-hound_ can boast of only sixteen. This three-master, which was convoying several merchant vessels loaded with wheat, had, together with her convoy, been captured by the intrepid captain, after a desperate fight of three hours, in which nearly or quite one-half of the French crew had been killed or wounded. "The gallant captain's entrance into the port of Dieppe was a veritable triumph. The entire population of the town assembled upon the piers, and when the brig, black with powder and riddled with shot, sailed slowly in with her prizes, shouts of the wildest enthusiasm rent the air, but the brave captain's triumph became an ovation when the people learned that the vessels which the three-master was convoying were laden with wheat. At a time when grain is so appallingly scarce in France, such a capture is a national benefaction, and when the people discovered that Captain l'Endurci, being aware of the speedy arrival of these vessels, had spent several days lying in wait for them, allowing richer and less dangerous prizes to pass unmolested, all Dieppe went wild." "How grand!" exclaimed the housekeeper, enthusiastically. "Ah, I would give ten years of my life to be the mother or sister of such a hero." "And I, my friend, deem myself a thousand times more fortunate in being the daughter of an honest merchant, instead of having some bloodthirsty hero for a father," remarked Sabine. "What a strange child you are! Wouldn't you feel proud to be able to say: 'That famous man is my father?'" "Not by any means. If he were absent, I should be always trembling to think of the danger he might be in; if he were with me, I should always be imagining I saw blood on his hands." "Such ideas seem very strange to me, for I love heroes, myself," said the older woman, gaily. "But go on, Onésime, I am anxious to hear how this valiant captain could have been kidnapped on French soil." Then, noticing that her nephew was unusually pale, and that big drops of perspiration were standing on his brow, she asked: "What is the matter, Onésime? You seem to be suffering."