Anthony walked through Water to Sassafras Street, and as he turned away from the river he saw a group of men who stood silently in the shadow of a building. One of them moved toward him, as he appeared, and said in French: "Citizen, pardon. We cannot find our ship. She is _Le Mousquet_; and we should be on board by now." Anthony pointed to where three masts shot up above some low buildings and stood outlined against the copper sky. "That," said he, "is the _Eclipse_. I have heard _Le Mousquet_ is anchored in the stream, opposite her." "We thank you," said the man. "You are kind." There was a stir among the group. Anthony stepped back to let them pass; as he did so a blow fell upon his head and he staggered. Then they were upon him like cats; another blow and he was down; and after that he knew nothing. XXIII There was the smell of cookery; also there was the wash of water; sounds came from overhead--creaking, bustling, familiar sounds; footsteps pattered to and fro; now and then some one spoke, and the words they said had to do with the working of a ship. Then Anthony realized he was lying in a bunk; he sat up, and as he did so he turned sick, and the little boxed-in place with its dim hanging lamp began to swirl. He put his hand to his head; there was a crust of blood upon his forehead, his hair was matted, and trickles, stiff and thick, ran down his face. He got upon his feet and stood for a moment, hoping his head would clear. The vessel careened slightly, showing she was under a good spread of sail. But she had tacked twice since Anthony opened his eyes, and this attracted his attention. He listened; the sounds that came from a distance were not of open water. They were still in the river. The door stood open; a gush of cool air struck him, rushing in at an open hatch, and he stood in it, drawing it into his lungs, to fan the low-burning embers of his life. The smell of cookery was stronger now; at a little distance from him he saw the broad back of a negro bent over a caldron in which a mess of meat stewed in the bobbing midst of leeks and carrots and other things, Anthony held to the doorway, and as he stood there the black cook turned. The sweating face held only astonishment for a moment; then it broadened into a wide smile. "Much blood!" said he in English, and pointed at the young man's head. Anthony regarded him unsteadily; everything swam and whirled; and he still felt cold and sick. "What ship is this?" he asked. "_Le Mousquet_," said the cook. Anthony held tighter to the door-frame and leaned his wounded head against his arms. The cook's smile grew wider; his white teeth gleamed; and he said, now in French: "The last time you were aboard, you came unwanted. This time you were sent for. It makes a difference, citizen, does it not?"