As the mariner put his question, he very deliberately took the book from Francois, who, instead of resenting the liberty, rather offered the volume, in exultation.

“No, sair, it is not how to furl la queue, but how to touch de soul; not de art to haul over de calm, but—­oui, c’est plein de connoissance et d’esprit!  Ah! ha! you know de Cid! le grand homme! l’homme de genie!  If you read, Monsieur Marin, you shall see la vraie poesie!  Not de big book and no single rhyme—­Sair, I do not vish to say vat is penible, mais it is not one book widout rhyme; it was not ecrit on de sea.  Le diable! que le vrai genie, et les nobles sentiments, se trouvent dans ce livre, la!”

“Ay, I see it is a log-book, for every man to note his mind in.  I return you Master Cid, with his fine sentiments, in the bargain.  Great as was his genius, it would seem he was not the man to write all that I find between the leaves.”

“He not write him all!  Yes, sair, he shall write him six time more dan all, if la France a besoin.  Que l’envie de ces Anglais se decouvre quand on parle des beaux genies de la France!”

“I will only say, if the gentleman wrote the whole that is in the book, and it is as fine as you would make a plain seafaring man believe, he did wrong not to print it.”

“Print!” echoed Francois, opening his eyes, and the volume, by a common impulse, “Imprime! ha! here is papier of Mam’selle Alide, assurement.”

“Take better heed of it then,” interrupted the seaman of the shawl.  “As for your Cid, to me it is an useless volume, since it teaches neither the latitude of a shoal, nor the shape of a coast.”

“Sair, it teach de morale; de rock of de passion et les grands mouvements de l’ame!  Oui, Sair; it teach all, un Monsieur vish to know.  Tout le monde read him in la France; en province, comme en ville.  If sa Majeste, le Grand Louis, be not so mal avise, as to chasser Messieurs les Huguenots from his royaume, I shall go to Paris, to hear le Cid, moi-meme!”

“A good journey to you, Monsieur Cue.  We may meet on the road, until which time I take my departure.  The day may come, when we shall converse with a rolling sea beneath us.  Till then, brave cheer!”

“Adieu, Monsieur,” returned Francois, bowing with a politeness that had become too familiar to be forgotten.  “If we do not meet but in de sea, we shall not meet, nevair.  Ah, ha, ha!  Monsieur le Marin n’aime pas a entendre parler de la gloire de la France!  Je voudrais bien savoir lire ce f—­e Shak-a-spear, pour voir, combien l’immortel Corneille lui est superieur.  Ma foi, oui; Monsieur Pierre Corneille est vraiment un homme illustre!”

The faithful, self-complacent, and aged valet then pursued his way towards the large oak on the bluff; for as he ceased speaking, the mariner of the gay sash had turned deeper into the woods, and left him alone.  Proud of the manner, in which he had met the audacity of the stranger, prouder still of the reputation of the author, whose fame had been known in France long before his own departure from Europe, and not a little consoled with the reflection that he had contributed his mite to support the honor of his distant and well-beloved country, the honest Francois pressed the volume affectionately beneath his arm, and hastened on after his mistress.