"Is this true, M. Senebier?" asked Armand, with a knowing smile.
"All true; my son is said to be very like me," replied the old fisherman, astounded by the turn matters had taken.
"Like you? Not very, bon! But you may thank heaven that I am not M. le Prefect of the Loire. Leave us your fish, M. Senebier, and be off before darkness sets in. See," he added, with a furtive but expressive glance at Grant; "see that you keep your worthy father clear of yonder British ship, which will just be abreast of the battery and two miles off about midnight."
Armand placed a bottle of brandy in the boat, and, while pretending to pay for the fish, pressed Grant's hand, wished him all success, and pointed out the bearings of the strange sail so exactly, that the moment darkness set fairly in, Raoul trimmed his lug sail and ran right on board of her; for her straight gun streak, her taper masts, and her snow-white canvas shone in the moonlight above the calm blue rippled sea, distinctly in the clear twilight of the stars.
"Boat ahoy!" cried a sentry from the quarter; "keep off, or I shall fire."
"What ship is that?" asked Grant, in whose ears a British voice sounded like some old mountain melody.
"His Britannic Majesty's frigate Laurel, of thirty-six guns."
"Hurrah!"
"Who the devil are you?"
"A prisoner of war just escaped."