“Mon cher, you are ‘honest fellow,’ as you Anglais say.  I wish it was noonday, that you might better see our deck—­le Feu-Follet is not ugly, that she should wish to wear a veil.  Tell everything, Clinch, mon brave; if Monsieur Cuffe wish to send another party against our lugger, come in the first boat en personne.  We shall always be happy to see Monsieur Clinch.  As for where we steer, you see out head is toward la belle France; and there is plenty of room for a long chase. Adieu, mon ami—­au revoir.”

Clinch now shook hands heartily with all the officers; again expressed his sense of the liberality with which he was treated, and this, too, with emotion; then he followed his people into the boat, and pulled away from the lugger’s side, holding his course toward the light which was still burning on board the Proserpine.  At the same time le Feu-Follet filled, and soon disappeared from his eyes in the darkness, running off wing-and-wing, and steering west, as if really making the best of her way toward the Straits of Bonifacio, on her road to France.

But, in fact, Raoul had no such intention.  His cruise was not up, and his present position, surrounded as he was with enemies, was full of attraction to one of his temperament.  Only the day before he had appeared in the disguise of a lazzarone, he had captured, manned, and sent to Marseilles a valuable store-ship; and he knew that another was hourly expected in the bay.  This was an excuse to his people for remaining where they were, But the excitement of constantly running the gauntlet, the pleasure of demonstrating the superior sailing of his lugger, the opportunities for distinction, and every other professional motive, were trifling, as compared with the tie which bound him to, the feeling that unceasingly attracted him toward Ghita.  With his love, also, there began to mingle a sensation approaching to despair.  While Ghita was so gentle, and even tender, with him, he had ever found her consistent and singularly firm in her principles.  In their recent dialogues, some that we hare forborne to relate on account of their peculiar character, Ghita had expressed her reluctance to trust her fate with one whose God was not her God, with a distinctness and force that left no doubt of the seriousness of her views or of her ability to sustain them in acts.  What rendered her resolution more impressive was the ingenuous manner with which she never hesitated to admit Raoul’s power over her affections, leaving no pretext for the commonplace supposition that the girl was acting.  The conversation of that night weighed heavily on the heart of the lover, and he could not summon sufficient resolution to part—­perhaps for months—­with such an apparent breach between him and his hopes.