“It is the fortune of war, you well know, Monsieur Merry,” he observed with a provoking smile. “Brave garçons like you know how to bear such reverses with equanimity. I can feel for you, though, believe me. Monsieur McAllister, I drink to your health, though I fear that you will not be a lieutenant as soon as you expected. Here, take some of this claret; it will revive your spirits.”
My messmate seized the decanter of wine, which it is the custom of the French to have on the table at breakfast, and drank off a large tumbler. He drew a long breath after he had done so.
“You have the advantage of us this time undoubtedly, Monsieur Préville,” he exclaimed bitterly; “but a day will come when we shall meet together on equal terms, and then, I hope, as brave men we shall fight it out to the death.”
“With pleasure, assuredly,” answered the Frenchman, with the politest of bows and smiles. “But in the mean time you must endeavour to restrain your impetuosity. At present it would be impossible to give you the satisfaction you require.”
Poor McAllister ground his teeth; the words were taunting, but the expression of the Frenchman’s countenance was more so. He would have sprung up and fought him then and there, with carving knives or any weapons at hand; but he restrained himself for a good reason. The lieutenant had a brace of loaded pistols by his side on the table, and two seamen stood on either side of us with loaded muskets, ready to blow out our brains, had we exhibited any signs of insubordination. McAllister went on eating his breakfast in silence.
The lieutenant pointed to the men and to his pistols.
“These are to do you honour,” he observed. “They are the greatest compliment we can pay to your bravery. Unless you were handcuffed, I should not think myself safe a moment.”
“We did not treat you so,” I remarked.
“No, my friend,” he said, smiling; “but you are prisoners, and I have regained command of my schooner.”
I had not a word to say, but I resolved to profit by the lesson in my future career.