"You are not hurt, Seymour, I hope?" said Price to our hero, who now joined the party, and whose clothes were stained with blood. "No," replied Seymour, smiling. "It's not my blood--it's Stewart's. I have been binding up his head; he has a very deep cut on the forehead, and a musket-ball in his neck; but I think neither of the wounds is of much consequence." "Where is he?" "In the cutter. I desired them to put the wounded man in her, out of the launch, and to pull on board at once. Was not I right?" "Yes, most assuredly. I should have thought of it myself." "Well, Jerry," said Seymour, laughing, "how many did you--" "I did not count them; but if you meet with any chaps with deeper wounds than usual, put them down to me. Do you know, Mr Price, you are more indebted to me than you may imagine for the success of this affair?" "How, Mr Jerry? I should like to know, that I may prove my gratitude; `eleven out of the thirteen' you paid, I've no doubt." "It was not altogether that--I frightened them more than I hurt them; for when they would have returned the blows from this stalwart arm," said Jerry, holding out the member in question, which was about the thickness of a large carrot, "I immediately turned edgeways to them, and was invisible. They thought that they had to deal with either a ghost or a magician, and, depend upon it, it unnerved them--" "`Approach thou like,'--what is it?" resumed Price, "something--`Hence, horrible shadow, unreal mockery, hence!'" "Pretty names to be called in reward of my services," cried Jerry. "I presume this is a specimen of the gratitude you were talking about. Well, after all, to take a leaf out of your book, Mr Price, I consider that the better part of valour is discretion. Now, that fellow, Stewart, he actually gave them his head to play with, and I am not sorry that he has had it broken--for I calculate that I shall be saved at least a dozen thrashings by some of his hot blood being let out--`the King's poor cousin!'" "By the bye, I quite forgot--where's Robinson, the coxswain of the cutter?" demanded Courtenay. "Between the guns forward seriously hurt, poor fellow, I am afraid," answered Seymour. "I'm very sorry for that--I'll go and see him--I wish to speak with him," replied Courtenay, walking forward. Robinson was lying near the long brass gun, which was pointed out of the foremost port, his head pillowed upon the body of the French captain, who had fallen by his hand, just before he had received his mortal wound. A musket-ball had entered his groin, and divided the iliac artery; he was bleeding to death--nothing could save him. The cold perspiration on his forehead, and the glassy appearance of his eye, too plainly indicated that he had but a few minutes to live. Courtenay, shocked at the condition of the poor fellow, who was not only the most humorous, but one of the ablest seamen in the ship, knelt down on one knee beside him, and took his hand.