of that. Here he was, and here he would stay,
as a President of his country had once remarked. The irksomeness and
restraint of his position began to wear on his nerves, and he cried
aloud for something--anything--to happen rather than what he was
enduring.

Something happened.

From between the Islands, there slowly appeared a great modern French
ship of war, small in the distance. Hope lighted up the face of De
Plonville. She must pass near enough to enable his signalling to be
seen by the lookout. Heavens! how leisurely she moved! Then a second
war vessel followed the first into view, and finally a third. The three
came slowly along in stately procession. De Plonville removed his coat
and waved it up and down to attract attention. So intent was he upon
this that he nearly lost his footing, and, realizing that the men-of-
war were still too far away, he desisted. He sat down as his excitement
abated, and watched their quiet approach. Once it seemed to him they
had stopped, and he leaned forward, shading his eyes with his hand, and
watched them eagerly. They were just moving--that was all.

Suddenly, from the black side of the foremost battle-ship, there rolled
upward a cloud of white smoke, obscuring the funnels and the rigging,
thinning out into the blue sky over the top-masts. After what seemed a
long interval the low, dull roar of a cannon reached him, followed by
the echo from the high hills of the island, and later by the fainter
re-echo from the mountains on the mainland. This depressed De
Plonville, for, if the ships were out for practice, the obscuring smoke
around them would make the seeing of his signalling very improbable;
and then that portion of the fleet might return the way it came,
leaving him in his predicament. From the second ironclad arose a
similar cloud, and this time far to his left there spurted up from the
sea a jet of water, waving in the air like a plume for a moment, then
dropping back in a shower on the ruffled surface.

The buoy was a target!

As De Plonville realized its use, he felt that uncomfortable creeping
of the scalp which we call, the hair standing on end. The third cannon
sent up its cloud, and De Plonville's eyes extended at what they saw.
Coming directly towards him was a cannon ball, skipping over the water
like a thrown pebble. His experience in the navy--at Paris--had never
taught him that such a thing was possible. He slid down flat on the
buoy, till his chin rested