in his one shot-locker, like young David of old, Paul bearded the British giant of Gath.  It is not easy, at the present day, to conceive the hardihood of this enterprise.  It was a marching up to the muzzle; the act of one who made no compromise with the cannonadings of danger or death; such a scheme as only could have inspired a heart which held at nothing all the prescribed prudence of war, and every obligation of peace; combining in one breast the vengeful indignation and bitter ambition of an outraged hero, with the uncompunctuous desperation of a renegade.  In one view, the Coriolanus of the sea; in another, a cross between the gentleman and the wolf.

As Paul stood on the elevated part of the quarter-deck, with none but his confidential quartermaster near him, he yielded to Israel’s natural curiosity to learn something concerning the sailing of the expedition.  Paul stood lightly, swaying his body over the sea, by holding on to the mizzen-shrouds, an attitude not inexpressive of his easy audacity; while near by, pacing a few steps to and fro, his long spy-glass now under his arm, and now presented at his eye, Israel, looking the very image of vigilant prudence, listened to the warrior’s story.  It appeared that on the night of the visit of the Duke de Chartres and Count D’Estaing to Doctor Franklin in Paris—­the same night that Captain Paul and Israel were joint occupants of the neighboring chamber—­the final sanction of the French king to the sailing of an American armament against England, under the direction of the Colonial Commissioner, was made known to the latter functionary.  It was a very ticklish affair.  Though swaying on the brink of avowed hostilities with England, no verbal declaration had as yet been made by France.  Undoubtedly, this enigmatic position of things was highly advantageous to such an enterprise as Paul’s.

Without detailing all the steps taken through the united efforts of Captain Paul and Doctor Franklin, suffice it that the determined rover had now attained his wish—­the unfettered command of an armed ship in the British waters; a ship legitimately authorized to hoist the American colors, her commander having in his cabin-locker a regular commission as an officer of the American navy.  He sailed without any instructions.  With that rare insight into rare natures which so largely distinguished the sagacious Franklin, the sage well knew that a prowling brave, like Paul Jones, was, like the prowling lion, by nature a solitary warrior.  “Let him alone,” was the wise man’s answer to some statesman who sought to hamper Paul with a letter of instructions.

Much subtile casuistry has been expended upon the point, whether Paul Jones was a knave or a hero, or a union of both.  But war and warriors, like politics and politicians, like religion and religionists, admit of no metaphysics.

On the second day after Israel’s arrival on board the Ranger, as he and Paul were conversing on the deck, Israel suddenly levelling his glass towards the Irish coast, announced a large sail bound in.  The Ranger gave chase, and soon, almost within sight of her destination—­the port of Dublin—­the stranger was taken, manned, and turned round for Brest.