“What is the matter with me!” cried Pog, in a delirium, “what is the matter with me! Then you do not know that this man who stands here before you, who roars with pain, who pushes cruelty to madness, who dreams only of blood and massacre; that this man was once blessed with all, because he was good, kind, and generous. You do not know, oh, you do not know the evil that must have been done to this man to excite in him the rage which now possesses him!” Trimalcyon was more and more amazed at this language, which contrasted so singularly with the habitual character of Pog. He tried to enlighten himself by carefully examining the countenance of his old comrade. After a long silence he heard the dry, strident laugh of the pirate ring through the galley. “Eh, eh! comrade,” said Pog, in the tone of irony natural to him, “it is quite right to say that at night mad dogs bark at the moon! Have you understood one word of all the nonsense I have just uttered to you? I would have been a good actor, on my faith I would; do you not think so, comrade?” “I have not understood much, to tell the truth, Captain Pog, except that you have not been always what you are now. We are alike in that. I was a servant in a college before being a pirate.” Pog, without making a reply, made a gesture of his hand commanding silence. Then, listening with attention on the side next to the sea, he said: “It seems to me I hear a boat.” “Without doubt,” said Trimalcyon. One of the watchmen on the rambade uttered three distinct cries, the first separated from the two last by quite a long interval; the last two, however, were close together. The patron of the boat replied to this cry in the opposite manner; that is to say, he uttered at first two short, quick cries, followed by a prolonged cry. “Those are persons from the chebec, and the spy, no doubt,” said Trimalcyon. In fact the long-boat was already at the first seat of the rowers. The spy climbed to the deck of the galley. “What news from Hyères?” said Pog to him. “Bad for Marseilles, captain; the galleys of the Marquis de Brézé, coming from Naples, anchored there yesterday.” “Who told you that?” asked Pog. “Two bargemasters. I entered a hostelry to beg an alms, and these bargemasters were talking about it. Some mule-drivers, coming from the west, heard the same thing at St. Tropez.” “And what rumour on the coast?” “They are alarmed at La Ciotat.” Pog waved his hand, and the spy retired. “What is to be done, Captain Pog?” cried Trimalcyon. “There are only blows to be gained at Marseilles; the squadron of the Marquis de Brézé protects the port. To attack an enemy unseasonably is to do him good instead of harm; we can do nothing at Marseilles.” “Nothing,” said Captain Pog.