The ill-visaged attendant brought me two suits of clothes of such anomalous cut and composition, as left it impossible to say for which element they had been especially intended. The host and sailor drank to the success of the expedition—the bell from the tower of San Sebastian beat twelve—the fosterer told each stroke—and then put up a pious supplication to Heaven, that this might be the last time he would ever count the same!
CHAPTER XLIII. ESCAPE FROM SAN SEBASTIAN, AND RETURN TO ENGLAND.
“A sad miscalculation about distance
Made all their naval matters incorrect.”
Don Juan.
“She look’d as if she sate at Eden’s door.
And griev’d for those who could return no more.”
Ibid.