"Be silent, I tell you."
"Think of the terror his name inspires in English sailors—the best seamen in the world; haven't you even heard them say in their superstitious fear that the success of this invincible and invulnerable man seems to indicate the swift decadence of England's maritime supremacy, and that the sea is to have its Napoleon as well as the land? Think what a disastrous effect such a superstition will have if the time ever comes when England makes an attempt to overthrow Bonaparte and crush France."
"But a murder,—a cowardly assassination!"
"An assassination? No, England and France are at war, and to take advantage of an ambuscade to surprise and destroy an enemy is one of the recognised laws of warfare."
Russell made no reply, but sat with his head bowed upon his breast for some time apparently absorbed in thought.
The Maltese seemed to be equally absorbed in thought. As they sat there in silence, the sound of carriage wheels was heard in the distance, followed by the cracking of the postilion's whip and the ring of horses' hoofs.
"Five o'clock! It must be he!" exclaimed the Englishman as he glanced at his watch.
Both men darted to the window and saw a dusty cabriolet drawn by two horses stop in front of the post-house on the other side of the street, opposite the inn, and in another instant the Englishman turned livid with rage and cast a look of implacable hatred on the unsuspecting traveller.
"It is he! It is really he!"
"And he is alone," added the Maltese, quickly.