n of getting you back to her. And rather than come without you,
and look into her eyes, I would have drowned myself in the Straits of
Dover.

"Despite the host of troubles he had on his hands, your commodore himself
came with us to Rotterdam. Now I protest I love that man, who has more
humanity in him than most of the virtuous people in England who call him
hard names. If you could have seen him leaning over you, and speaking to
you, and feeling every minute for your heart-beats, egad, you would have
cried. And when I took you off to the schooner, he gave me an hundred
directions how to care for you, and then his sorrow bowled him all in a
heap."

"And is the commodore still at the Texel?" I asked, after a space.

"Ay, that he is, with our English cruisers thick as gulls outside'
waiting for a dead fish. But he has spurned the French commission they
have offered him, saying that of the Congress is good enough for him.
And he declares openly that when he gets ready he will sail out in the
Alliance under the Stars and Stripes. And for this I honour him," added
he, "and Charles honours him, and so must all Englishmen honour him when
they come to their senses. And by Gads life, I believe he will get
clear, for he is a marvel at seamanship."

"I pray with all my heart that he may," said I, fervently.

"God help him if they catch him!" my Lord exclaimed. "You should see
the bloody piratical portraits they are scattering over London."

"Has the risk you ran getting me into England ever occurred to you,
Jack?" I asked, with some curiosity.

"Faith, not until the day after we got back, Richard," says he, "when I
met Mr. Attorney General on the street. 'Sdeath, I turned and ran the
other way like the devil was after me. For Charles Fox vows that
conscience makes cowards of the best of us."

"So that is some of Charles's wisdom!" I cried, and laughed until I was
forced to stop from pain.

"Come, my hearty," says Jack, "you owe me nothing for fishing you out of
Holland--that is her debt. But I declare that you must one day pay me
for saving her for you. What! have I not always sworn that she loved
you? Did I not pull you into the coffee-room of the Star and Garter
years ago, and tell you that same?"

My face warmed, though I said nothing.

"Oh, you sly dog! I'll warrant there has been many a tender talk just
where I'm sitting."

"Not one," said I.

"'Slife, then, what have you been doing," he cries, "seeing her ever