"I am not angry, my good Pierre," he answered.
"Then why sulk with your friend?"
"I do not sulk, heaven knows; I am simply sad. You have reopened a wound I thought forever closed," the other added with a sigh.
"Well, then, in heaven's name, if it be so," cried the captain, "let us talk about something else—and above all, let us drink. This old rum is a sovereign remedy for the blues. Your health, my friend."
Both drank after touching glasses, and then silence again ensued.
"Now, my dear Oliver," resumed the captain, "at last we are safe in Boston. We leave tomorrow. What do you intend to do?"
"You remember our conversation at Brest?"
"I have not forgotten it, but I never seriously entertained the idea. We had dined rather copiously."
"We were very sober. There were two bottles on the table, one empty and the other nearly full. I then told you that though I had only just returned to France after an absence of ten years, I was compelled to leave at a moment's notice, and to leave without raising any suspicion. I wanted to depart without anyone being able to obtain the slightest clue; you remember," he added.
"I do, and I told you that I would run the blockade that very night, if the weather turned out as bad as I expected. Did I keep my promise?"