ed the others. Acting on this advice, they soon
began to feel a little less miserable. They had straw to sleep on, and
were allowed very poor fare; but there was a sufficiency of it. The
first night passed, and the second day; after which another fit of
despair seized some of the party. Then John Potter managed to cheer
them up a bit, and as he never went about without a small Testament in
his pocket, he was able to lighten the time by reading portions of it
aloud. After that they took to relating their "lives and adventures" to
each other, and then the inventive spirits among them took to "spinning
long-winded yarns." Thus a couple of weeks passed away, during which
these unfortunate prisoners of war went through every stage of feeling
between hope and despair over and over again.

During one of his despairing moods, Teddy Maroon declared that he had
now given up all hope, and that the first chance he got, he would kill
himself, for he was quite certain that nobody would ever be able to find
out where they were, much less "get them out of that fig."

But Teddy was wrong, as the sequel will show.

Let us leap now, good reader, to the Tuileries,--into the apartments of
Louis XIV. From a prison to a palace is an unusual leap, no doubt,
though the reverse is by no means uncommon! The old King is pacing his
chamber in earnest thought, addressing an occasional remark to his
private Secretary. The subject that occupies him is the war, and the
name of England is frequently on his lips. The Secretary begs leave to
bring a particular letter under the notice of the King. The Secretary
speaks in French, of course, but there is a peculiarly rich tone and
emphasis in his voice which a son of the Green Isle would unhesitatingly
pronounce to be "the brogue."

"Read it," says the King hurriedly: "but first tell me, who writes?"

"A gendarme, sire: a poor relation of mine."

"Ha: an Irishman?"

"No, sire: but his mother was Irish."

"Well, read," says the King.

The Secretary reads: "Dear Terrence, will you do me the favour to bring
a matter before the King? The commander of a French privateer has done
an act worthy of a buccaneer: he has attacked the men who were
re-building the famous Eddystone lighthouse, and carried them prisoners
of war into this port. I would not trouble you or the King about this,
did I not know his Majesty too well to believe him capable of
countenancing such a deed."

"What!" exclaims t