The priest was seated on a water-cask, reading his Breviary, while Zac stood not far off, looking thoughtfully over the vessel's side. Terry was at the tiller, not because there was any steering to be done, but because he thought it would be as well for every one to be at his post in the event of a change of wind. He had whistled "St. Patrick's Day in the Morning," and was about beginning another interminable strain of the same kind. Claude was lounging about, and gradually drew nearer to the meditative Zac, whom he accosted. "Well, we don't appear to be making much progress--do we?" said he. Zac slowly shook his head. "No," said he; "I must say, I don't like this here one mite. 'Tain't quite right. Seems kin' o' unlucky." "Unlucky? How?" "Wal, fust and foremost, ef it hadn't been you, you'd never a' got me to pint the Parson's nose for that French hole, Louisbourg." "Why not?" asked Claude, in some surprise; "you don't suppose that there's any danger--do you?" "Wal, it's a risky business--no doubt o' that thar. You see, my 'pinion is this, that Moosoo's my nat'ral born enemy, an' so I don't like to put myself into his power." "O, there's no danger," said Claude, cheerily. "There's peace now, you know--as yet." Zac shook his head. "No," said he, "that ain't so. There ain't never real peace out here. There's on'y a kin' o' partial peace in the old country. Out here, we fight, an' we've got to go on fightin', till one or the other goes down. An' as to peace, 'tain't goin' to last long, even in the old country, 'cordin' to all accounts. There's fightin' already off in Germany, or somewhars, they say." "But you know," said Claude, "you thought you could manage this for me somehow. You said you could put me ashore somewhere without trusting yourself in Louisbourg harbor--some bay or other--wasn't it? I forget what the name is. There's no trouble about that now--is there?" "Wal, not more'n thar was afore," said Zac, slowly; "on'y it seems more resky to me here, jest now, settin' here this way, inactive like; p'aps it's the fog that's had a kin' o' depressin' effect on my sperrits; it's often so. Or mebbe it's the effect of the continooal hearin' of that darned frog-eatin' French lingo that you go on a jabberin' with the priest thar. I never could abide it, nor my fathers afore me; an' how ever you--you, a good Protestant, an' a Massachusetts boy, an' a loyal subject of his most gracious majesty, King George--can go on that way, jabberin' all day long with that thar priest in that darned outlandish lingo,--wal, it beats me,--it doos clar." At this Claude burst into a merry laugh.