"Why not?"
"Out with it, then."
"I had a boat of my own, in which, as I told you, I smuggled. I worked six years to save up the money to buy this boat. One day, while seeking to land prohibited goods in a bay to windward of Portugalete, I was surprised by a Spanish revenue lugger. My boat was sunk, my brother killed, myself dangerously wounded, and I fell into the hands of the Gavachos. The first bandage they placed on my wounds was a bastinado, which left me for dead on the ground. Believing, doubtless, that they had killed me, they abandoned me then, and paid no further attention to me. I succeeded by boldness and cunning, after enduring indescribable tortures from hunger, cold, fatigue, &c., too lengthy to enumerate, in at length leaping across the frontier, and finding myself once again on French soil. I was free, but my brother was dead. I was ruined, and my old father ran a risk of dying of hunger—thanks to the Spaniards. Such is my history. It is not long.—How do you like it?"
"It is a sad one, my good fellow; but it is as much hatred as the desire of growing rich which has brought you among us?"
"It is hatred, before everything."
"Good! Take the helm in my place, while I reflect. We are going to Nevis. Steer to windward of that point which juts out down there to the southeast."
The engagé seized the helm. Montbarts wrapped himself in his cloak, pulled his hat over his eyes, let his head sink on his chest, and remained motionless as a statue. The canoe still advanced, vigorously impelled by the breeze.