Mesclet performed the service in a kind manner, opening the interview by asking the names of my father and mother, and then demanding how many uncles I had on my mother's side? My replies appeared satisfactory. "Was one of your uncles a navy officer?" inquired Mesclet, "and where is he at present?" The only uncle I had in the navy, I declared, had long been absent from his family. But once in my life had I seen him, and that was while on his way to Marseilles, in 1815, to embark for the Spanish main; since then no intelligence of the wanderer had reached my ears. Had I been a French _scholar_ at that time, my adventures of consanguinity at Ferrol and on this key might well have brought Moliere's satire to my mind: "De moi je commence a douter tout de bon; Pourtant, quand je me tate et que je me rapelle, _Il me semble que je suis moi!_" Mesclet's report gave perfect satisfaction to the scoffers, and the mysterious drama at once established me in a position I could not have attained even by desperate services to the _filibusteros_. A bumper, all round, closed the night; and each slunk off to his cot or blanket beneath a mosquito bar, while the bloodhounds were chained at the door to do double duty as sentinels and body-guard. I hope there are few who will deny me the justice to believe that when I stretched my limbs on the hard couch assigned me that night, I remembered my God in heaven, and my home in Tuscany. It was the first night that an ingenuous youth had spent among outcasts, whose hands were still reeking with the blood of his companions. At that period of manhood we are grateful for the mere boon of _life_. It is pleasant to live, to breathe, to have one's being, on this glorious earth, even though that life may be cast among felons. There is still a _future_ before us; and Hope, the bright goddess of health and enthusiasm, inspires our nerves with energy to conquer our present ills.