“The comte is engaged to me, Howell,” said the general, with a courtly smile, “and, indeed, you must leave the ship to night, or as soon as we anchor.—­But I shall take daylight and to-morrow.”

“Well—­well—­Denbigh,” exclaimed the other, rubbing his hands with pleasure as he viewed the increasing power of the wind, “only make yourselves happy, and I am contented.”

A few hours intervened before they reached the Bay of Plymouth, and round the table, after their dinner, were seated the general and English admiral.  The comte, under the pretence of preparing his things for a removal, had retired to his apartment to conceal his feelings;—­and the captain of the ship was above, superintending the approach of the vessel to her anchorage.  Two or three well emptied bottles of wine yet remained; but as the healths of all the branches of the House of Brunswick had been propitiated from their contents, with a polite remembrance of Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette from General Denbigh, neither of the superiors was much inclined for action.

“Is the Thunderer in her station?” said the admiral to the signal lieutenant, who at that moment came below with a report.

“Yes, sir, and has answered.”

“Very well; make the signal to prepare to anchor.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“And here, Bennet,” to the retiring lieutenant—­“call the transports all in shore of us.”

“Three hundred and eighty-four, sir,” said the officer, looking at his signal-book.

The admiral cast his eye at the book, and nodded an assent.

“And let the Mermaid—­Flora—­Weasel—­Bruiser, and all the sloops lie well off, until we have landed the soldiers:  the pilot says the channel is full of luggers, and Jonathan has grown very saucy.”

The lieutenant made a complying bow, and was retiring to execute these orders, as Admiral Howell, taking up a bottle not yet entirely deserted by its former tenant, cried stoutly—­“Here, Bennet—­I forgot—­take a glass of wine; drink success to ourselves, and defeat to the French all over the world.”

The general pointed significantly to the adjoining cabin of the French admiral, as he pressed his hand on his lips for silence.

“Oh!” cried Admiral Howell, recollecting himself, continuing in a whisper, “you can drink it in your heart, notwithstanding.”

The signal officer nodded, and drank the liquor.  As he smacked his lips while going on deck, he thought to himself, these nabobs drink famous good wine.

Although the feelings of General Denbigh were under much more command and disciplined obedience than those of his friend, yet was he too unusually elated with his return to home and expected honors.  If the admiral had captured a fleet, he had taken an island;—­and hand in hand they had co-operated in unusual harmony through the difficulties of an arduous campaign.  This rather singular circumstance was