“Waiting,” returned the young man, in a somewhat hasty tone, “for an opportunity to get away. Sir,” he continued, advancing a step or two, and with a flush on his cheek, “my story is too long to tell you here; I am an Englishman and a gentleman; my name is Julian Arden, and—” “What! Be the powers of war!” exclaimed O’Loughlin, springing forward, and catching the surprised young man by the hand; “Julian Arden! the lost brother of Mabel, and the son of the Duchesse de Coulancourt?” “Oh, sir!” exclaimed the young man, trembling with emotion, and clasping the captain’s hand with a grasp of intense feeling; “who are you, who greet my ear with names engraved upon my heart—never forgotten through years of suffering and degradation?” Julian Arden paused; his eyes were filled with tears, and his voice failed him from agitation. Patrick O’Loughlin wrung the young man’s hand, almost equally affected; but, taking him by the arm, whilst Charles Pole and the quarter-master Brown stood considerably surprised, he said— “Come with me, Mr. Arden; you could not have stumbled upon a man who can so much relieve your mind as I can. Thank God for this strange and most unexpected meeting!” Julian Arden felt a sensation of happiness he had not experienced for years. He followed the commander into his cabin, and then the delighted O’Loughlin—whose generous nature never felt so elated, or experienced so much pleasure, as when rendering a service to a friend—again warmly shook the young man by the hand, told him to consider himself as much at home in the little Onyx as himself, and summoning the steward, ordered him to place refreshments and wine on the table. “I am so overpowered, Captain O’Loughlin, by your extreme kindness, and so bewildered by hearing so suddenly intelligence that fills my heart with rapture—for I judge, by your words and manner, that I may expect to hear that my beloved mother and sister are both alive—whilst alas! for years I have mourned them as dead.” “It delights me,” said O’Loughlin, “to be able to positively assure you that not only is your mother, Madame de Coulancourt, alive, but she had been, when last we heard of her, restored to her estate of Coulancourt, and was residing in Paris. Your sister, Mabel Arden, who has grown into a most lovely girl, is in England, residing with a French lady, a Madame Volney. There is, or will be, time enough for mutual explanations this evening, provided we do not again encounter the Prudente—an ugly customer for the little Onyx. I wish my consort was up with us—we should then be able to manage our friend.” “The Prudente is a very fine craft,” said Julian Arden, “but her commander is one of the most vulgar tyrants that ever trod a deck.” “Now, make yourself comfortable,” said the Commander, as the steward placed the breakfast equipage on the table; for the day was yet young, and neither the commander of the Onyx nor his officer had broken their fast.