"I know, your honours," said Peter, "that I have been guilty of a breach of discipline; but I deny that I had any intention of running from the service. Who amongst you, that has a heart to feel, would not, under the same circumstances, have acted as I did? Who that has been torn from a faither's hearth, would not brave danger, or death itself, again to take a faither by the hand, or to fling his arms around a mother's neck? Or who that has plighted his heart and his troth to one that is dearer than life, would not risk life for her sake? Gentlemen, it becomes not man to punish an act which Heaven has not registered as a crime. You may flog, torture, and degrade me--I do not supplicate for mercy--but will degradation prompt me to serve my king more faithfully? I know you must do your duty, but I know also you will do it as British officers--as men who have hearts to feel." During this address, Peter had laid aside his wonted provincial accent. There was an evident leaning amongst the officers in his favour, and the punishment they awarded him was a few days' confinement. It was during the second war between Britain and the United States. The frigate was ordered to the coast of Newfoundland. She had cruised upon the station about three months; and, during that time, as the seamen said--"not a lubber of the enemy had dared to show his face--there was no _life_ going at all;" and they were becoming impatient for a friendly set-to with their brother Jonathan. It was Peter's watch at the mast-head. "A sail!--a Yankee!" shouted Peter. A sort of wild hurra burst from his comrades on the deck. An officer hastily ascended the rigging to ascertain the fact. "All's right," he cried--"a sixty-gun ship, at least." "Clear the deck, my boys," cried the commander; "get the guns in order--active--be steady, and down upon her." Within ten minutes, all was in readiness for action. "Then down on the deck, my lads," cried the captain; "not a word amongst you--give them a British welcome."