"Ah!" he said, "looking at our misfortunes; I left my leg on Waterloo."
"And I," chimed in his companion, "left my arm at Trafalgar."
"Sacré!" said the veteran of the land. "One of the cursed English bullets took me in the knee, and spoiled as tight a lancer as they had in the gallant 10th."
"And I," rejoined the other, "was at the fourth main-deck gun of the Pluton when I was struck with the splinter while we were engaging the Mars. But we had our revenge. The Pluton shot the Mars' captain's head off!"—a fact which I afterwards verified. Captain Duff, the officer alluded to, was thus killed upon his quarter-deck, and the same ball shattered two seamen almost to pieces.
"Sacré!" said the ci-devant lancer, "I'd like to have a rap at the English again—I would—the English—nom de tonnerre—tell me—didn't they murder the emperor?"
A rising smile, which I could not help, stopped him. I had spoken so few words, that the fact that a son of perfide Albion was before them was only manifested by the expression of my face.
"Tiens!" continued the Waterloo man, "You are an Englishman."
The old sailor, who was evidently by no means so keen a hand as his comrade, nudged him; a hint, I suppose, in common phrase, to draw it mild; but the ex-lancer of the 10th was not to be put down.
"Well, and if you are, what then, eh? I say I would like to have another brush with you."
"No, no! We have had enough of brushes!" said the far more pacific man of the sea. "I think—mon voisin—that you and I have had quite enough of fighting."