He speaks French perfectly. He is excruciatingly polite, and is evidently a man of the world, conscious of being entrusted with a delicate duty; but rather overdoing it. He would be handsome, but for small cunning, or rather roguish eyes, when roguish is used in an undefined sense, and may mean smartness good or bad; but it is difficult to take his measure. He has evidently seen service. His hair is of the light rusty brown of nature and exposure. His face is shorn, except a sweeping moustache peculiarly well trimmed. There are some lines about his face which tell the old story of suffering and privation. He is, as I have said, courteous--more than courteous. He does not even examine the Greek and Moldo-Wallachian passports; but he pauses over the French and English to see if the visas are correct. Mine he examined more narrowly, and then returned it with a gay débonnaire bow, a polite smile, and a backward step. A Greek keeps up a conversation with him the whole time he remains on board. I fancy there is more in it than meets the ear. In speaking to this fellow the major takes a short, sharp, abrupt, hasty tone of command, like a man in authority pressed for time. The major does not examine the hold of the vessel, nor interrogate any of the Austrian officers. There is evidently a shyness and ill-will between them. When we have each filed past him in turn, the Pole draws his elegant figure up to its full slim height, tightens his belt, and marches with a light gallant step from one end of the vessel to the other. Then he halts at the gangway, faces about, casts a hawk’s eye round the ship, and descends the companion-ladder. The trim little bark is hooked closer on; then the grapnels are loosened, and she spreads her light sail to the wind. The rowers shelve their oars, and the next moment she is dashing the spray from her bows, and flying towards the shore with the speed of a sea-gull. At the stern sits the Pole upright as a dart, the sunbeams toying with his helmet--a picture to muse on. Nothing could have been in better taste than the whole thing. It might have served for a scene of an opera, or a chapter in a delightfully romantic peace novel. I confess I cannot help feeling something like a pitying tenderness for the smart cavalier; who may, a few days hence, be called away to the war, and return to his true love never--be mashed by a cannon shot, or blown into small pieces by a mine--his life’s errand all unaccomplished, his bright life suddenly marred. I think, too, how strange and sad is the destiny which can make such a Pole take part in a cause which, if successful, will rivet the chains of his countrymen for ever; and how he would meet his patriot countrymen who have joined the hostile ranks in hundreds for only one faint hope of freedom.