the deck of the frigate. This was a man of
about fifty years of age, large, stout, wearing a buff coat with wide
scarlet breeches, and boots of sheepskin. His hair and mustache were
red, his eyes light blue, the eyeballs veined with little vessels which
the slightest emotion injected with blood, showing a violent and
passionate temper.

We hasten to inform the reader that this athletic personage was the most
fanatical of all the fanatical partisans of Monmouth, and he would have
thought himself a thousand times blessed to have shared the fate of
Sidney; in a word, this man was Lord Percy Mortimer. His disquietude,
his agitation, his impatience, were inexpressible; he could not stay in
one place a moment.

Twenty times had Lord Mortimer descended to the door of Croustillac's
cabin to know if "my lord the duke" had not asked for him. In vain had
he implored the officer to send word to the duke that Mortimer, his best
friend, his old companion in arms, wished to throw himself at his feet;
his wishes were vain, the orders of the unhappy Croustillac, who
regarded each minute gained as a precious conquest, were rigorously
carried out.

Chemerant also went upon deck, clothed in a magnificent dress, his air
radiant and triumphant; he seemed to say to all: "If the prince is here,
that is thanks to my ability, to my courage." Seeing him, Mortimer
approached him quickly.

"Well, sir," he said to him, "may we know at last at what hour the duke
will receive us?"

"The duke has forbidden any one to enter his apartment without his
order."

"I am on red-hot coals," replied Mortimer; "I shall never forgive myself
for having gone to bed this night, and not to have been the first to
press our James in my arms, to throw myself at his feet--to kiss his
royal hand."

"Ah, Lord Mortimer, you love our brave duke well?" said De Chemerant;
"partisans such as you are rare!"

"_If_ I love our James!" cried Mortimer, turning a deep and apoplectic
red, "_if_ I love him! Hold! I and Dick Dudley, my best friend, who
loves the duke, not as much as I (we fought once because he made this
absurd claim)--I and Dudley, I tell you, asked each other just now if we
should have the strength to again see our James without giving way--like
silly women."

"The duke was right," thought De Chemerant. "What enthusiasm! It is not
attachment, it is frenzy." Mortimer resumed with vehemence: "This
morning on rising we embraced each other; we committed a thou