"And mine, Benoit Bossoit."
"We have both been seamen, and have served on board the privateer ship, le Maréchal Duc de Belleisle, under the famous M. Thurot, in that battle off the Firth of Forth, with your two frigates, the Solebay and Dolphin, in May last."
Next day, when relieved from guard, I met those men, by appointment, at a quiet tavern, where we had some wine, for which they paid liberally, seeming to be very well furnished (especially for deserters) with Louis d'ors; and in the course of conversation I spoke freely—far too freely—of the number, strength, and probable objects of our expedition.
The name of one of these men—a tall, muscular, dark, and coarse-looking fellow, whose subdued manner belied his savage aspect—struck me as being singular.
"You are named Damien, are you not?" I said to him.
"Theophile Damien—at monsieur's service."
"It seems familiar to me."
"As to the most of Europe," said he, bitterly, and he ground his strong white teeth as he spoke.
"What causes your hatred to your country—this disloyalty to your king?"
"Tudieu! have I not told you that we were slaves—galley slaves—and confined in St. Malo?"