The little fleet made a gallant show, spreading its white sails to woo the summer breeze, and boldly ploughing the deep waters of the bay.  A parting salute rolled heavily along the adjacent shores, and was succeeded by the sprightly notes of a French horn, which floated merrily over the waves.  The town, and its green environs, shortly receded, the distant hills faded in the horizon, and the emerald isles lay, like specks, on the bosom of the ocean.  Soon, the blended sky and water were the only objects on which the eye could rest; and Arthur Stanhope felt his spirits rise, as he again launched forth on the changeful element which he had loved from childhood.  Nothing occurred to interrupt their passage, till they had advanced far up the Bay of Fundy, when the wind suddenly died away, and left them becalmed, within a few hours sail of the St. John’s.  This accident was a seasonable warning to D’Aulney, who then lay near the mouth of the river, waiting for La Tour’s return; but, being apprized of his reinforcement, he prudently retreated from the unequal conflict.  With the caution of experience, he successfully avoided La Tour’s track; and the latter, who felt already sure of his prey, had at last the vexation to discover him, at a safe distance, and when the wind and tide rendered pursuit impossible.  A thick fog, which soon began to rise, entirely separated them; and approaching night rendered it expedient to anchor, until the return of day.  A report of M. d’Aulney’s menaced attack on the fort had already reached La Tour, though it was too confused to convey much information, or relieve his extreme anxiety.  But he endured the suspense far better than his lieutenant, who made no attempt to conceal his vexation at the necessary delay.  After pacing the deck for some time in silence, he suddenly exclaimed to La Tour,

“It is tedious beyond measure to lie here, becalmed almost within sight of the fort! and then so little reliance can be placed on the flying reports which we have heard!  I wish, as nothing can, at any rate, be done to-night, you would allow me to push off in a boat by myself and reconnoitre with my own eyes.”

“And leave me to meet the enemy without you in the morning;—­is that your intention?” asked La Tour, pettishly.

“You do not ask that question seriously, I presume?” said De Valette.

“Why, not exactly, Eustace,” he answered; “though I confess I think it rather a strange request to make just at this time.”

“Why so?” asked De Valette; “I would only borrow a few hours from repose, and my plan may be accomplished with ease;—­nor shall you have reason to complain, that I am tardy at the call of duty.”

“I understand you now, my brave nephew and lieutenant,” said La Tour, smiling; “you would play the lover on this moonlight night, and serenade the lady of your heart, to apprise her of your safe return.”

“There was not quite so much romance in my plot,” replied De Valette; “but if you permit me to execute it, I pledge myself to return before midnight; and though you are not a lover, I am sure you are far from being indifferent to the intelligence which I may bring you.”