As the Frenchman turned toward the door, he came face to face with Major Coventry returning with the orders he had prepared.
"Paul Jones, by Heaven!" shouted the latter.
"At your service," said the supposed Frenchman, promptly tearing off his wig and laying his hand on his sword.
"Ha!" cried the admiral. "Have you dared to come here! I have you now! Call the guard! Sergeant, arrest this rebel--this traitor--this pirate--disarm him! You shall never leave this castle but for the ship, sir. The yard-arm is there."
"Stop, my Lord!" answered Jones, calmly, as the men crowded toward him; "stand back, sergeant, back, men! You cannot touch me; I have that which will protect me wherever flies the English flag."
"And that is--" said the admiral, smiling contemptuously.
"Your word, sir,--the word of an English officer."
The old man bit his lip in chagrined silence. He struggled with himself, looking at the easy, insouciant Scotsman before him.
"In seventy years it has not been broken," he said at last. "Well for you that you secured it. Go! You are free! You are a bold man, sir, but, I warn you, do not cross my path again."
"I am proud to have met so true a gentleman. Will you honor me?" said Paul Jones, presenting his snuffbox to the admiral. The old man hesitated, laughed in spite of himself, and finally helped himself to a pinch.