“Then, ten to one, this is the skipper of the privateer that Captain O’Loughlin mentioned, as having caused the imprisonment of Sir Sidney Smith and Sir Oscar de Bracy.” This reflection did not require a second’s delay in answering the privateer’s man, who in reality was the captain of the Vengeance. “I hail from Rouen, messmate,” replied Julian, quite unconcernedly, and imitating, which he could do with ease, the manner and language of a seaman. “I have heard of the Vengeance, but I was not seeking you. I am going on to the village, and then to Havre, to get a passage to Rouen.” “Diable!” said the Captain, “you are out of your course; how did you get upon this part of the coast?” “I was landed by my own desire,” returned Julian, “from the brig Sybille, from Bordeaux to Hamburg. The captain and I could not agree, so we parted; he put me ashore close by here. How far is it to Havre?” “Well, some two leagues,” answered the Captain; “but I tell you what—you had better join my craft. She will be all right in less than a month; I am in want of hands, and as the Vengeance is known to be one of the fastest and most successful privateers out of any French port, you cannot do better.” “In a month,” observed Julian, appearing to think; “yes, that would suit me well enough. I don’t like the merchant service, and was thinking of serving the Republic, by entering one of their ships of war.” “Don’t be such a sacre fool,” said the Captain, “take my word for it, no life like a privateer’s man.” “Well, where shall I hear of you, if I make up my mind before the month’s out?” inquired Julian. “My craft is repairing at the mouth of the creek,” returned the privateer’s man, “about a mile from here; do you intend stopping at the village yonder?” “Yes, for an hour or two.” “Well, then, ask for Dame Moret; she’s my wife’s mother. She’ll give you a good breakfast, and a glass of good eau-de-vie; and if you will join me within the month, seek me there, you’ll hear of me; I like young, active fellows like you. Stay, what’s your name?” “Louis Lebeau.” “Ah! very good; heave ahead, my lads,” said the captain to the men, who stood leaning against the cart, smoking their pipes and listening. Julian pursued his course. “So,” thought he, soliloquising, “the Vengeance has met with some accident since her attempted capture. If Captain O’Loughlin knew she was repairing within this creek, he would assuredly land and burn her.” He walked on, passing several persons, who paid no attention to him further than the usual “bon jour,” and entered the village, memory returning at the sight of some familiar object, and proceeding direct towards Dame Moret’s farm-house. Three or four women were busily occupied in various ways in the large yard before the dwelling-house; groups of turkeys, with “Maitre Jacques” at their head, were gabbling incessantly, answered in anything but harmonious tones by a flock of geese, whilst whole flocks of pigeons kept flitting about.