Le Bien Aimé was now hove full in the wind's eye, so that the next shot from this strange ship went no one knew where.
There were terrible confusion, growling, swearing, with lack of discipline, on board, but no lack of pluck among the crew, and fifty of the most finished ragamuffins that ever sailed from the Loire or Brest stood to their guns.
The next cannon that flashed from the strange ship made Quentin, who clung to a belaying pin on the port side, spring backwards involuntarily, the red light of the explosion seemed so close; but it enabled him to see for an instant the large ship with her lee side full of men.
"She is a frigate, at least!" exclaimed Marin, with a frightful oath, as he drew his cutlass; "we cannot fight her; she may be French, and the whole affair a mistake, though: hush, silence fore and aft—they are hailing!"
"Ho—brig ahoy!" sang out a voice in most unmistakeable English.
Jehan Marin ground his yellow teeth—those cursed English! Could he doubt that any but they would first fire and then question?
"Hallo!" he replied.
"What brig is that?" hailed the officer, through a trumpet, and Quentin felt his heart beating wildly with anxiety and anticipation. Next moment he heard Eugene and the French skipper engaged in a brief but very angry expostulation.
"What is the matter?" he asked, as Eugene joined him.
"Don't inquire," said he, "lest I blush that I am a Frenchman."