"Broussard, you are angry now, and I'll take no heed of your heated words. But to-morrow you must make a gentleman's amends."
"Tush, tush," Levert interposed, "'tis the quarrel of a child. He means nothing."
Broussard said no more, but looked surly and ill pleased. I was secretly elated at the success of my coup against such a skilled swordsman, and only remarked quietly:
"Broussard, when your anger has passed I trust you will do me the honor of an apology."
Behind it all I cared little, for I felt myself his master with his chosen weapon and could afford to be generous. He came up in very manly fashion, after a time, and craved my forgiveness, but we played at foils no more.
The lookouts were beginning to watch for land, I growing more and more impatient as the end of our voyage drew near. And now I had much leisure to contemplate, and wonder at the strange turn of fortune which had called upon me to play a part in the affairs of state, though what the drama was, and what my lines might be, I could only guess. The story of Colonel D'Ortez, too, furnished me much food for reflection these long starlit nights, when I sat in my favorite seat in the very prow of the vessel. There would I sit night after night, watching the phosphorescent waves rippling against the vessel, gleaming fitful in the gloom; there observe the steadfast stars, and seem alone with darkness and with God.
One wet morning, pacing the slippery deck, the sailing master called to me:
"See, sir, yonder dim outline to the nor'east? 'Tis the Norman coast; this night, God willing, we sleep in Dieppe."
My errand now consumed my entire attention, so I thought no more of my companions of the voyage, bidding them both good-night before we had yet landed.