"Fortune changes," said Eugene, laughing with all the nonchalance of a Frenchman; "you are now free, and I am a prisoner."
The prize-master, a rough and somewhat elderly man for a middy—one of those hardworking fellows whose boast it used to be that they came into the service through the hawse-holes, questioned the cabin passengers sharply and categorically.
"You, sir," said he, looking at Eugene, cutlass in hand; "what are you?"
"Eugene de Ribeaupierre, sous-lieutenant in the French service, and ready to give my parole."
"Keep it till we are at Spithead; and you, sir," he added, turning furiously to Quentin, "are an Englishman, I see, and in the French service too—eh?"
"No, sir; I happen to be a Scotsman, and in the British service."
"Where are your papers?"
"I have none."
"Oho; d—n me! you have none?" said he, suspiciously.
"No; but my name is recorded in the ship's books as a prisoner of war, a lieutenant in the 7th Fusiliers, proceeding to Paris on parole."