“And what is this large blue flag here, with all the colored bars across it?” said one. “Ay,” cried another, “they're very fond of that ensign; what can it be?” “Close action,” growled out Paul, sullenly, who didn't fancy even the reflective praise this question implied to the hated rival. “_Sacrebleu!_” said a third, “they've no other to announce a victory. Look here; it is the same flag for both.” Paul shut up the book at this, with a muttered curse, which might have been intended either for his comrades or the English, or both together, and the whole party became suddenly silent. It was now that the landlord's tact became conspicuous; for instead of any condoling expressions on what might have been deemed the unsuccessful result of Paul's career, he affected to think that the brave seaman was more to be envied for the possession of that volume than if he walked the deck an admiral of France. This flattery, aided by a fresh supply of Burgundy, had full success; and from story-telling the party fell to singing,--the songs being only a more boastful detail of their prowess at sea than their prose narratives; and even here Paul maintained his supremacy. Sleep, however, stronger than self-glorification and pride, fell on the party one by one, and they lay down at last on the tables and benches, and slumbered heavily. CHAPTER XXXI. A MOONLIGHT RECOGNITION I sat on my bed in the little chamber allotted me, and as the bright moonlight streamed along the floor, and lit up the wide landscape without, I hesitated within myself whether I should await the morning, or at once set forth on my way to the coast. It was true the abbé had not arrived; and without him I knew nothing of the vessel, nor where she lay, much less by what means I should induce the crew to receive me as a passenger. But my heart was fixed on gaining the coast; once there, I felt that the sea alone rolled between me and my country, and I had little doubt some means of escape would present itself. The desire to return to Ireland, long stilled, was now become a passion. I thought some new career must there open for me, and in its active vicissitudes I should make amends for the wearisome languor of my late life. What this novel path was to be, and where to lead, I cannot say; nor am I able now, in looking back, to guess by what sophistry I persuaded myself into this belief. It was the last ray of hope within me, however, and I cherished it only the more fondly for its very uncertainty. As I sat thus deliberating with myself what course to take, the door was cautiously opened, and the landlord entered. “He is come,” whispered he; “and, thank Heaven! not too late.” “The abbé?” inquired I. “No, not the abbé; but the Comte de Chambord. The abbé will not venture; but it matters not, if you will. The letters are all ready; the sloop is off the coast; the wind is fair--”