This flattery, aided by a fresh supply of Burgundy, had full success; and from story-telling the party fell to singing,—the songs being only a more boastful detail of their prowess at sea than their prose narratives; and even here Paul maintained his supremacy.
Sleep, however, stronger than self-glorification and pride, fell on the party one by one, and they lay down at last on the tables and benches, and slumbered heavily.
CHAPTER XXXI. A MOONLIGHT RECOGNITION
I sat on my bed in the little chamber allotted me, and as the bright moonlight streamed along the floor, and lit up the wide landscape without, I hesitated within myself whether I should await the morning, or at once set forth on my way to the coast. It was true the abbé had not arrived; and without him I knew nothing of the vessel, nor where she lay, much less by what means I should induce the crew to receive me as a passenger. But my heart was fixed on gaining the coast; once there, I felt that the sea alone rolled between me and my country, and I had little doubt some means of escape would present itself.
The desire to return to Ireland, long stilled, was now become a passion. I thought some new career must there open for me, and in its active vicissitudes I should make amends for the wearisome languor of my late life. What this novel path was to be, and where to lead, I cannot say; nor am I able now, in looking back, to guess by what sophistry I persuaded myself into this belief. It was the last ray of hope within me, however, and I cherished it only the more fondly for its very uncertainty.
As I sat thus deliberating with myself what course to take, the door was cautiously opened, and the landlord entered.
“He is come,” whispered he; “and, thank Heaven! not too late.”
“The abbé?” inquired I.
“No, not the abbé; but the Comte de Chambord. The abbé will not venture; but it matters not, if you will. The letters are all ready; the sloop is off the coast; the wind is fair—”