On the 4th of August, 1801, a little after eight o'clock at night, just as the last rays of the setting sun disappeared behind the heights of Dorchester, gilding as they did so the summits of certain islands scattered at the entrance to Boston Bay, some idlers of both sexes, collected on Beacon Hill, at the foot of the lighthouse, saw a large vessel making for the harbour. At first it seemed as if the ship would be compelled to desist from her design, as the wind was slightly contrary; but, by a series of skilful manoeuvres, it at last passed by the danger which threatened, the sails were one by one taken in and furled, and finally the anchor was cast beside one of the many vessels in port. A few minutes later nothing was to be seen on deck save one man walking up and down doing duty as watch for the time being. The vessel had, under cover of a dense fog, escaped from Brest, slipped past the English cruisers, and finally, after many dangers, reached its destination. Descending into the cabin, we find two men seated at a table upon which were glasses, bottles, pipes, and tobacco, conversing and smoking. These were Captain Pierre Durand, a young man, with regular but rather effeminate features, and yet a look of frank honesty, to which his sparkling eyes, his broad forehead, his long waving hair, gave an appearance of singular energy. Though every inch a sailor, there was a refinement about him not generally found in his class. His companion was a handsome and haughty young man, of about two-and-twenty, of moderate height, but with very broad shoulders; he was evidently of powerful make, with nerves of steel. His complexion was olive; his hair long wavy black; his eyes were large and bold; the expression of his countenance sombre and thoughtful, while at this early age many a wrinkle caused by thought or suffering was to be observed. There had evidently been a warm discussion, for the captain was walking up and down, a frown upon his brow. Suddenly, however, he reseated himself and held out his hand across the table. "I was wrong. Do not be vexed," he said. "I am not angry, my good Pierre," he answered. "Then why sulk with your friend?" "I do not sulk, heaven knows; I am simply sad. You have reopened a wound I thought forever closed," the other added with a sigh. "Well, then, in heaven's name, if it be so," cried the captain, "let us talk about something else--and above all, let us drink. This old rum is a sovereign remedy for the blues. Your health, my friend." Both drank after touching glasses, and then silence again ensued. "Now, my dear Oliver," resumed the captain, "at last we are safe in Boston. We leave tomorrow. What do you intend to do?" "You remember our conversation at Brest?" "I have not forgotten it, but I never seriously entertained the idea. We had dined rather copiously."