in stood, firm as before. They must have guarded the old
man thus to prevent his escape to the shore, something less than a
thousand miles distant at the time.

"Well, sir, will you have that beard taken off? you have slept over it
a whole night now; what do you say? I don't want to flog an old man
like you, Ushant!"

"My beard is my own, sir!" said the old man, lowly.

"Will you take it off?"

"It is mine, sir?" said the old man, tremulously.

"Rig the gratings?" roared the Captain. "Master-at-arms, strip him!
quarter-masters, seize him up! boatswain's mates, do your duty!"

While these executioners were employed, the Captain's excitement had a
little time to abate; and when, at last, old Ushant was tied up by the
arms and legs and his venerable back was exposed--that back which had
bowed at the guns of the frigate Constitution when she captured the
Guerriere--the Captain seemed to relent.

"You are a very old man," he said, "and I am sorry to flog you; but my
orders must be obeyed. I will give you one more chance; will you have
that beard taken off?"

"Captain Claret," said the old man, turning round painfully in his
bonds, "you may flog me if you will; but, sir, in this one thing I
_cannot_ obey you."

"Lay on! I'll see his backbone!" roared the Captain in a sudden fury.

"By Heaven!" thrillingly whispered Jack Chase, who stood by, "it's only
a halter; I'll strike him!"

"Better not," said a top-mate; "it's death, or worse punishment,
remember."

"There goes the lash!" cried Jack. "Look at the old man! By G---d, I
can't stand it! Let me go, men!" and with moist eyes Jack forced his
way to one side.

"You, boatswain's mate," cried the Captain, "you are favouring that
man! Lay on soundly, sir, or I'll have your own _cat_ laid soundly on
you."

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven,
twelve lashes were laid on the back of that heroic old man. He only
bowed over his head, and stood as the Dying Gladiator lies.

"Cut him down," said the Captain.

"And now go and cut your own throat," hoarsely whispered an old
sheet-anchor-man, a mess-mate of Ushant's.

When the master-at-arms advanced with the prisoner's shirt, Ushant
waved him off with the dignified air of a Brahim, saying, "Do you
think, master-at-arms, that I am hurt? I will put on my own garment. I
am never the worse for it, man; and 'tis no dishonour when he who would
dishonour you, only dishonours himself."

"What