Midshipman Quinn

— 4 —

Moving ghost-like through the summer night, a small vessel with a graceful single mast and two sails set crept into the narrow passage which led out of Marseilles harbour. From the jibboom hung two lanterns, one above the other.

"What vessel's that?" came the hail from the mole on the starboard hand.

"Chasseur — Captain Desmoulins!"

"Whither bound?"

"On night manoeuvres!"

"That's Sous-Officier Cartier speaking, sir," said the sergeant of gunners to his officer.

"Pass, Chasseur — and good fortune to you!" shouted the officer, adding to his sergeant, "Desmoulins is getting very dutiful — manoeuvres on carnival night, pardieu!"

The sloop glided slowly out of the harbour entrance. Philippe Cartier, who had been speaking with some difficulty owing to the fact that the point of Seaman Dobbs's knife was pricking the back of his neck, was escorted below.

"Make sail, Mr. Beamish, if you please," ordered her new commander, no longer the Great Enrico but Mr. Midshipman Septimus Quinn. "And don't raise your voice," he added. "We're still within earshot of the moles."

Forestaysail and gaff-topsail rose and bellied out in the light breeze, a girlish giggle from aloft indicating that Seaman Eccles was doing his part. The sloop Chasseur curtseyed to the wind and headed seaward, bound for Lord Nelson's fleet sixty miles away off Toulon.