“To the Commanding Officer of His Majesty’s Ship Foudroyant.”

As soon as the magical words of “Nelson and Bronte” were affixed to this order, with a date, Clinch rose to depart.  After he had made his bows, he stood with his hand on the lock of the door, as if uncertain whether to prefer a request or not.

“This is a matter of moment, sir, and no time is to be lost,” added Nelson.  “I feel great anxiety about it, and wish you to desire Captain Cuffe to send you back with a report of all that has passed, as soon as convenient.”

“I will report your wishes, my lord,” answered Clinch, brightening up; for he only wanted an opportunity to speak of his own promotion, and this was now offered in perspective.  “May I tell the commanding officer of the flag-ship to use the lower-deck guns, my lord?”

“He will do that of his own accord, after reading those orders; heavy guns mean the heaviest.  Good afternoon, sir; for God’s sake, lose no time.”

Clinch obeyed this injunction to the letter.  He reached the Foudroyant some time before sunset, and immediately placed the order in her captain’s hands.  A few words of explanation set everything in motion, and the three guns were fired on the side of the ship toward Capri, most opportunely for our hero.

The half hour that succeeded, on board the Proserpine, was one of gayety and merriment.  Every person was glad that the ship had escaped an execution; and then it was the hour for piping down the hammocks, and for shifting the dogwatches.  Cuffe recovered all his animation, and conversed cheerfully, having Griffin for an interpreter, with his two Italian guests.  These last had been prevented from paying their visit to the prisoner, on account of the latter’s wish to be alone; but the intention was now renewed; and sending below, to ascertain if it would be agreeable, they proceeded together on their friendly mission.  As the two worthies, who had not altogether got their sea-legs, slowly descended the ladder, and threaded their way among the throng of a ship, the discourse did not flag between them.

“Cospetto!” exclaimed the podesta; “Signor Andrea, we live in a world of wonders!  A man can hardly say whether he is actually alive or not.  To think how near this false Sir Smees was to death, half an hour since; and now, doubtless, he is as much alive, and as merry as any of us.”

“It would be more useful, friend Vito Viti,” answered the philosophical vice-governatore, “to remember how near those who live are always to death, who has only to open his gates to cause the strongest and fairest to pass at once into the tomb.”

“By San Stefano, but you have a way with you, vice-governatore, that would become a cardinal!  It’s a thousand pities the church was robbed of such a support; though I do think, Signor Andrea, if your mind would dwell less on another state of being, it would be more cheerful; and I may say, more cheering to those with whom you discourse.  There are evils enough in this life, without thinking so much of death.”