Her crew were all disarmed and placed under a guard of marines; a strong hawser was run on board and made fast to the capstan or windlass, the yard heads were trimmed, a jury fore-yard rigged in a trice, and the privateer in tow of the _Medusa_ stood off towards the coast of "perfidious Albion." The weather was so rough, however, that they were compelled to slack off or let go the towline; but lanterns were hoisted at the foreyard, and thus they kept company till daylight. "Fortune changes," said Eugene, laughing with all the nonchalance of a Frenchman; "you are now free, and I am a prisoner." The prize-master, a rough and somewhat elderly man for a middy--one of those hardworking fellows whose boast it used to be that they came into the service through the hawse-holes, questioned the cabin passengers sharply and categorically. "You, sir," said he, looking at Eugene, cutlass in hand; "what are you?" "Eugene de Ribeaupierre, sous-lieutenant in the French service, and ready to give my parole." "Keep it till we are at Spithead; and you, sir," he added, turning furiously to Quentin, "are an Englishman, I see, and in the French service too--eh?" "No, sir; I happen to be a Scotsman, and in the British service." "Where are your papers?" "I have none." "Oho; d--n me! you have none?" said he, suspiciously. "No; but my name is recorded in the ship's books as a prisoner of war, a lieutenant in the 7th Fusiliers, proceeding to Paris on parole." The mid shook Quentin's hand on hearing this, and ordered a jorum of grog, in which Eugene good-naturedly joined him, remarking-- "Ma foi, monsieur, don't be too sure of having us at the Spithead." "Why not, if the wind holds good?" "Some of our ships may retake us--aha!" "No fear of that, mounseer; the sea at present is only open to _us_," was the composed reply. Marin, who sat in a corner, imprecated his fate bitterly; he cursed what he considered Eugene's squeamishness, which prevented him from availing himself compulsorily of Quentin's aid to deceive the _Medusa_; but consoled himself by the hope that "he would yet take it out of the hides of those 'sacré Anglais,' in some fashion or other." "Take up the slack of your jawing-tackle, Johnny," said the mid; "drink your grog, shut up, and turn in; your ill luck to-night may be mine to-morrow." Madame de Ribeaupierre was greatly concerned by the turn her affairs had taken; but at a time when the whole sea was covered by the cruisers of the largest fleet in the world, it was strange that she did not anticipate some such catastrophe.