"Very good--thanks! From this very hour I am Jonathan Buck," said the reckless Grant. He reloaded his pistols, concealed them in his breast, and repairing to the Foreign Office, demanded his passport with the coolness of a prince _incog_. "Your name, monsieur?" "M. Jonathan Buck," drawled Grant through his nose. The passport was handed to him at once, and long before the police could ascertain that Monsieur Buck had departed this life at 9 A.M., and yet had received his papers at 9 P.M., on the same day, our hero had left Paris far behind him, and was travelling post towards the mouth of the Loire. On reaching Nantes, he repaired at once to Paimboeuff, twenty miles further down the river, where all vessels, whose size was above ninety tons, usually unloaded their cargoes; and there he boarded the first vessel which had up the stars and stripes of America, and seemed ready for sea. She proved to be the _Ohio_, a fine bark of Boston, Jeremiah Buck, master. "'Tis fortunate," said Grant through his nose, as he was ushered into the cabin of the Yankee; "I am a namesake of yours, captain--Jonathan Buck, of Cape Cod, seeking a cabin passage to Boston." "All right--let me see your passport, stranger?" "Here it is, skipper." "Well, for a hundred and fifty dollars, I am your man," drawled the Boston captain, who was smoking a long Cuba; "but it is darned odd, stranger, that I have been expecting _another_ Jonathan Buck, my own nephew, from Paris; he is in the fish and timber trade, and hangs out at old Nantucket; but he took a run up by the dilly to see the Toolerie, the Loover, and all that. Well, darn my eyes, if this is not my nephew's passport!" exclaimed the American suddenly, while his eyes flashed with anger and suspicion. "Stranger, how is this?" In some anxiety, Grant frankly related how the document came into his possession, and produced the letters of the secret agent, proving who he was, beseeching the captain, as a man come of British blood and kindred, to assist him; for, if taken by the French, the dungeon of Verdun or Bitche, or worse, perhaps, awaited him. The Yankee paused, and chewed a quid by which he had replaced his cigar. Full of anxiety, yet without fear, Grant summoned all his philosophy, and recalled the words of Bossuet, "That human life resembles a road which ends in frightful precipices. We are told of this at the first step we take; but our _destiny_ is fixed, and we _must_ proceed."