“Many think, and say, you are Frenchmen, and that the English flag is only a disguise.”

“If that be all, we must bear the infamy,” answered Raoul Yvard, laughing.  “Why, this is just what we are to a man, a single American excepted, who is an excellent fellow to make out British commissions, and help us to a little English when harder pushed than common; and why should we be offended, if the good inhabitants of Porto Ferrajo take us for what we are?”

“Not offended, Raoul, but endangered.  If the vice-governatore gets this notion, he will order the batteries to fire upon you, and will destroy you as an enemy.”

“Not he, Ghita.  He is too fond of le Capitaine Smeet’, to do so cruel a thing; and then he must shift all his guns, before they will hurt le Feu-Follet where she lies.  I never leave my little Jack-o’-Lantern[1] within reach of an enemy’s hand.  Look here, Ghita; you can see her through this opening in the houses—­that dark spot on the bay, there—­and you will perceive no gun from any battery in Porto Ferrajo can as much as frighten, much less harm her.”

[1] The English of Feu Follet.

“I know her position, Raoul, and understand why you anchored in that spot.  I knew, or thought I knew you, from the first moment you came in plain sight; and so long as you remained outside, I was not sorry to look on so old a friend—­nay, I will go further, and say I rejoiced, for it seemed to me you passed so near the island just to let some whom you knew to be on it understand you had not forgotten them; but when you came into the bay, I thought you mad!”

“Mad I should have been, dearest Ghita, had I lived longer without seeing you.  What are these miserables of Elbans, that I should fear them!  They have no cruiser—­only a few feluccas—­all of which are not worth the trouble of burning.  Let them but point a finger at us, and we will tow their Austrian polacre out into the bay, and burn her before their eyes.  Le Feu-Follet deserves her name; she is here, there, and everywhere, before her enemies suspect her.”

“But her enemies suspect her now, and you cannot be too cautious.  My heart was in my throat a dozen times, while the batteries were firing at you this evening.”

“And what harm did they? they cost the Grand Duke two cartridges, and two shot, without even changing the lugger’s course!  You have seen too much of these things, Ghita, to be alarmed by smoke and noise.”

“I have seen enough of these things, Raoul, to know that a heavy shot, fired from these heights, would have gone through your little Feu-Follet, and, coming out under water, would have sunk you to the bottom of the Mediterranean.”

“We should have had our boats, then,” answered Raoul Yvard, with an indifference that was not affected, for reckless daring was his vice, rather than his virtue; “besides, a shot must first hit before it can harm, as the fish must be taken before it can be cooked.  But enough of this, Ghita; I get quite enough of shot, and ships, and sinkings, in everyday life, and, now I have at last found this blessed moment, we will not throw away the opportunity by talking of such matters—­”