Ribau. Thus far in safety. All is hush. Our subtle air of France quickens not the temperament of the enemy. These phlegmatic English snore out the night, in as gross heaviness as when their senses stagnate in their own native fogs, where stupor lies like lead upon them,—which the muddy rogues call sleep. We have nearly passed the entrenchments;—the day breaks.—La Gloire!
La Gloire. My commander!
Ribau. Where did you direct our mariners to meet us, with the boat?
La Gloire. Marry, I told them to meet us with the boat at the sea shore.
Ribau. Vague booby! at what point?
La Gloire. That's the point I was coming to, my lord! and, if a certain jutting out of land, in the shape of a white cliff, with brown furze on its top, like a bushy head of hair over a pale face, stand where it did——
Ribau. East of the town:—I have mark'd it.
La Gloire. Look you there, now! what I have hunted after, a whole day, to fix upon, hath he noted without labour. Oh, the capacious heads of your great officers!—No wonder they are so careful of them in battle; and thrust forward the pitiful pates of the privates, to be mowed off like a parcel of daisies.—But there lies the spot—and there will the mariners come. We are now within ear-shot; and, when they are there, they will whistle.
Ribau. And, till they give the signal, here, if there be aught of safety to be picked from danger, is the least dangerous spot to tarry for them. We are here full early.