"Here are my black sheep," said Captain Cottrell. "One Yankee is more trouble than twenty Frenchmen. Never satisfied. There are exceptional men amongst them—representatives of the old American gentry; but the greater number are the very rubbish and offscourings of the sea, swept here by our men-o'-war. I believe that near half of them are Englishmen from the privateers. They get high bounties for that work; but they are a reckless and dangerous company. These men set the hulks on fire at Plymouth."
"Made the ships too hot to hold 'em? But they are safe enough here. Tut, tut! Dartmoor would tame the Devil himself, once he was on a chain."
The yellow-coated prisoners wandered about, and some exchanged private jests as Cottrell passed, and some fell into silence until he was out of earshot. Then a very tall, finely built man, drew himself up and saluted the reigning power.
"You see there is a gentleman now and then to be found among them."
"And that particular gentleman I have good cause to know," answered Norcot. "May I exchange compliments with him? 'Twas he who, in a moment of undue haste, broke my head."
Cecil Stark found himself summoned, and Mr. Norcot told the Commandant of their meeting at the church.
"Then, like a lion, he felled me with his paw. I hope no fist will ever hit me so hard again."
"He is prominent among them, and his influence is all for good," said the Commandant carelessly in Stark's hearing.
"And a sailor; and doubtless good-hearted, like all sailors. Well, Mr. Stark, your servant, sir."
Cecil Stark recognised the wool-stapler immediately, and shook the hand extended to him.