The mid shook Quentin's hand on hearing this, and ordered a jorum of grog, in which Eugene good-naturedly joined him, remarking—
"Ma foi, monsieur, don't be too sure of having us at the Spithead."
"Why not, if the wind holds good?"
"Some of our ships may retake us—aha!"
"No fear of that, mounseer; the sea at present is only open to us," was the composed reply.
Marin, who sat in a corner, imprecated his fate bitterly; he cursed what he considered Eugene's squeamishness, which prevented him from availing himself compulsorily of Quentin's aid to deceive the Medusa; but consoled himself by the hope that "he would yet take it out of the hides of those 'sacré Anglais,' in some fashion or other."
"Take up the slack of your jawing-tackle, Johnny," said the mid; "drink your grog, shut up, and turn in; your ill luck to-night may be mine to-morrow."
Madame de Ribeaupierre was greatly concerned by the turn her affairs had taken; but at a time when the whole sea was covered by the cruisers of the largest fleet in the world, it was strange that she did not anticipate some such catastrophe.
When it was reported to the captain of the Medusa that the wife of General de Ribeaupierre was in the Bien Aimé, he politely offered her the use of a cabin on board his ship; but having no wish to be separated from Eugene, she continued in the privateer, with which the frigate kept company for several days, until she saw her close in shore under the white cliffs of Old England, when she brought her starboard tacks on board, and, like a great eagle in search of fresh prey, stood over towards the coast of France. Thus, on the evening of the 16th of March, exactly two months after the battle of Corunna, Quentin found the Bien Aimé safely anchored at Spithead, close by the guns of a line-of-battle ship.
There Eugene gave his parole, and Quentin found himself a free man!