And on the morrow, the islanders, or English-French, more or less privateersmen themselves, were equally curious. Where had the ship come from? Where was it going? And how many tons of wine, bales of silk and packages of tobacco, or "ptum," as the weed was called, had it captured? Old Pierre would soon find out, for early that day, despite the inclemency of the weather, he came down to the beach, and, followed by a servitor, got into a small boat moored close to the shore. "He is going aboard!" "Who has a better right? His own vessel!" "No; André Desaurac--the Black Seigneur's! They say he long ago paid for it from prizes wrested from the Governor of the Mount." "At any rate, old Pierre entered into a bargain to build the boat for him--" "And added to his wealth by the transaction." Later that morning the old man came ashore, but, according to habit, preserved a shrewd silence; in the afternoon a small number of the crew landed to take on stores and ammunition--of which there was ever a plentiful supply at this base; that night, however, all, including their master, betook themselves to the Cockles. "Glad to see you ashore, _mon capitaine_!" Pierre Laroche, standing at the door, just beyond reach of the fierce driving rain, welcomed the Black Seigneur warmly; but the young man, one of whose arms seemed bound and useless, cut short his greetings; tossed bruskly aside his dark heavy cloak, and called for a room where he might sit in private with a companion. This person the landlord eyed askance; nevertheless, with a show of bluff heartiness, he led the way to a small chamber, somewhat apart, but overlooking the long low apartment, the general eating and drinking place of the establishment, now filled by the crew and a number of the islanders. "Your _capitaine_ has been hurt? How?" A strapping, handsome girl, clad in red and of assured mien, passing across the room, paused to address a man of prodigious girth, who drank with much gusto from a huge vessel at his elbow. "Did not your father, Pierre Laroche, tell you?" "He? No; all he thinks of is the money." "Then must _le capitaine_ speak for himself, Mistress Nanette." "You are not very polite, Monsieur Gabarie," she returned, tossing her head; "but I suppose there is a reason; you have been beaten. In an encounter with the Governor's ships? Did you sink any of them? It would be good news for us islanders." "_You_ islanders!" derisively. "Yes, islanders!" she answered defiantly. "But tell me; a number of you wear patches, which make you look very ugly. They were acquired--how?" "In a little clerical argument!" growled the poet. She glanced toward the secluded apartment; its occupants--the subject of their conversation, and a priest, a feeble-looking man of about seventy, whose delicate, sad face shone white and out-of-keeping in that adventuresome company. "At any rate, the Black Seigneur hasn't lost his good looks!" "Take care _you_ don't lose your heart!"