“Si, Signore—­ving-y-ving.  Such is the name of the lugger of your king that now lies in our bay.”

“Ah! we thought as much, Signori; the scoundrel has deceived you, as he has done a hundred before you, and will do a hundred again unless we catch him to-night.  The lugger is a celebrated French privateer, that we have six cruisers in chase of at this moment, our own ship included.  She is called le Feu-Follet, which is not Wing-and-Wing, but Will-o’-the-Wisp, or Jack-o’-Lantern, in English; and which you, in Italian, would call il Fuoco Fatuo.  Her commander is Raoul Yvard than whom there is not a greater desperado sailing out of France; thought it is admitted that the fellow has some good—­nay, some noble qualities.”

At every word uttered by the lieutenant, a page of history was blotted out from the memory of his listener.  The vice-governatore had heard the name of Raoul Yvard, and even that of le Feu-Follet, which the malignancy of a bitter war had blackened nearly to the hues of piracy.  The thought that he had been the dupe of this corsair—­nay, that he had actually been entertaining him with honors and hospitality, within an hour—­was almost too much for his philosophy.  Men do not often submit to such humiliating sensations without a struggle; and before he would, or could, accord full credence to what was now told him, it was natural to oppose the objections that first offered.

“All this must be a mistake,” observed the vice-governatore; “there are English as well as French luggers; and this is one of the former.  Her commander is a noble English gentleman, a son of Milordo Smees; and though his education has been in a trifling degree neglected, he shows his origin and national character in all he says and does.  Ze Ving-y-Ving is commanded by Sir Smees, a young officer of merit, as you must have seen yourself, Signore, by his evolutions this very morning.  Surely, you have heard of Il Capitano Sir Smees, the son of Milordo Smees!”

“We do not deny that his escape this morning was a clever thing, Vice-governatore, for the fellow is a seaman, every inch of him, and he is as brave as a lion; but, then, he is as impudent as a beggar’s dog.  There is no Sir Smees, nor Sir Anybody else, in command of any of our luggers anywhere.  In the Mediterranean we have no cruiser of this rig at all; and the two or three we have elsewhere are commanded by old sea-dogs who have been brought up in that sort of craft.  As for Sirs, they are scarce out here, though the battle of the Nile has made a few of them for the navy.  Then you’ll not meet with a nobleman’s sort in a clipper like this, for that sort of gentry generally go from a frigate’s quarter-deck into a good sloop, as commander, and, after a twelvemonth’s work or so in the small one, into a fast frigate again, as a post-captain.”

Much of this was gibberish to Andrea Barrofaldi, but Griffin being exclusively naval, he fancied every one ought to take the same interest as he did himself in all these matters.  But, while the Vice-governatore did not understand more than half of the other’s meaning, that half sufficed to render him exceedingly uneasy.  The natural manner of the lieutenant, too, carried conviction with it, while all the original impressions against the lugger were revived by his statements.