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"What are you doing at that cabin door, sir?" asked Mr Lawrence. "I do not enquire what you are doing in this cabin, for, according to the custom of this ship, and perhaps of others in your Service, you take your meals here. But what are you doing at that door, conversing through it with the lady inside?",

"There it is!" said Miss Acton. "Give me a sea as smooth as our lawn, and I will accompany you, my dear.",

All on a sudden and when the silence that followed had not lasted ten seconds, she sprang to her feet with a shriek; she dashed her hands to her face, she rushed as though pursued to the other end of the cabin, and there crouched with her face to the bulkhead, hidden in her hands; and thus she stood rocking herself sideways, moaning: "Why am I not sent home? Why am I here a prisoner? What will my father think has become of me? Home, home, home! In the hands of a man that dare rob his employer! At the mercy of one who of all Captain Acton's friends and acquaintances should feel the most deeply obliged to him." She wheeled round and out of her incommunicable attitude and[Pg 283] language of distress, and said, looking at him vacantly with a cold, pale smile: "Are you Mr Lawrence, the son of Sir William Lawrence, Captain Acton's friend?",

"Take meself," he went on, drawing his stool closer to the chairs of his young friends. "All me life have I dhrunk more er less av the cup that cheers; but I'm through now, byes, not so much either because ut's a fit av the blue divils the stuff give me but because I mane from now on to quaff the swate draft of Nature widout a bad taste in me mouth. I'm through wid whisky feriver, and ut's Harry O'Dule, siventh son av a siventh son, so declares himself this day. Ut's out into God's blissid sunlight have I come afther bein' held prisoner by a deadlier disease than measles, me byes."

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"What cheer! How are ye, Captain, how are ye this fine morning? Have you heard the news?",

"Lucy, my dear," exclaimed Miss Acton, "play 'Now, Goody, Please to Moderate,' or 'My Lodging is on the Cold Ground,' or 'Sally in our Alley.' I do not care which. They are all very beautiful, and I know no song, brother, that carries me back like 'Sally in our Alley.' Do you remember how finely our father used to sing it? He was at Dr Burney's one night, sir," said she, talking to Mr Lawrence, "when a famous Italian singer of that day—who was it now?—she was as yellow as a guinea, and her hoops were so large there were many doors she could not pass through—who was it now? But no matter; after my father had sung she stepped over to him, and curtsying as though she would sit before him, she said: 'I have often heard this song sung and thought nothing of it. But now, sir, I shall ever regard it as the loveliest composition in English music.'",

At daylight the vessel proved to be a frigate; she was painted black, with red gun-ports and red tompions. But this was no evidence of her nationality, for it was only comparatively recently that Nelson had caused ships under his command to carry white bands which the portholes for the guns[Pg 416] chequered with black squares. And many ships of the State in 1805 were black in hull and some of them yellow.,

"I may now tell you," said he, "that Captain Acton this morning, on my expressing my regret that you could not obtain employment, most handsomely and liberally made you the offer of the command of a ship, the Minorca."