about to say, in true negro state, “‘The Old Thirteen,’ gentlemen and ladies!” as he had said “‘Virginny Reel,’ if you please!” and “‘Money-Musk,’ if you please!” the captain’s boy tapped him on the shoulder, whispered to him, and he did not announce the name of the dance; he merely bowed, began on the air, and they all fell to,—­the officers teaching the English girls the figure, but not telling them why it had no name.

But that is not the story I started to tell.  As the dancing went on, Nolan and our fellows all got at ease, as I said,—­so much so, that it seemed quite natural for him to bow to that splendid Mrs. Graff, and say,—­

“I hope you have not forgotten me, Miss Rutledge.  Shall I have the honor of dancing?”

He did it so quickly, that Fellows, who was with him, could not hinder him.  She laughed and said,—­

“I am not Miss Rutledge any longer, Mr. Nolan; but I will dance all the same,” just nodded to Fellows, as if to say he must leave Mr. Nolan to her, and led him off to the place where the dance was forming.

Nolan thought he had got his chance.  He had known her at Philadelphia, and at other places had met her, and this was a Godsend.  You could not talk in contra-dances, as you do in cotillions, or even in the pauses of waltzing; but there were chances for tongues and sounds, as well as for eyes and blushes.  He began with her travels, and Europe, and Vesuvius, and the French; and then, when they had worked down, and had that long talking time at the bottom of the set, he said boldly,—­a little pale, she said, as she told me the story years after,—­

“And what do you hear from home, Mrs. Graff?”

And that splendid creature looked through him.  Jove! how she must have looked through him!

“Home!!  Mr. Nolan!!!  I thought you were the man who never wanted to hear of home again!”—­and she walked directly up the deck to her husband, and left poor Nolan alone, as he always was.—­He did not dance again.  I cannot give any history of him in order; nobody can now; and, indeed, I am not trying to.

These are the traditions, which I sort out, as I believe them, from the myths which have been told about this man for forty years.  The lies that have been told about him are legion.  The fellows used to say he was the “Iron Mask;” and poor George Pons went to his grave in the belief that this was the author of “Junius,” who was being punished for his celebrated libel on Thomas Jefferson.  Pons was not very strong in the historical line.

A happier story than either of these I have told is of the war.  That came along soon after.  I have heard this affair told in three or four ways,—­and, indeed, it may have happened more than once.  But which ship it was on I cannot tell.  However, in one, at least, of the great frigate-duels with the English, in which the navy was really baptized, [Note 8] it happened that a round-shot from the enemy