[Footnote 1:  See “Autobiography of a French Protestant.”  Religious Tract Society.  A thrilling narrative, of which the Quarterly Review says:—­“The facts are more interesting than fiction, and the incidents not less strange.”]

“But now we come to Bordeaux,” said he, at length; and in fact, the increase of traffic on the water was sufficient of itself to tell us that we were approaching an important commercial city, while in the distance were seen the masts of ships of many nations.  Nearer at hand the richly-wooded heights were studded with the country seats of opulent merchants, many of whom either were Huguenots or had made their fortunes by Huguenots.  It was to be supposed, therefore, that we had many friends here; and, indeed, many were favoring our escape as much as they could without compromising themselves; but such jealous watch was being kept on the port that this was extremely difficult.  Soon my companion ran his boat in between two others similarly laden—­as far as vegetables when, that is, for I know not they held any fugitives; and a great war of words ensued, in which it was difficult to know whether they were really quarrelling or not.

At length I got ashore, and found my way to the counting-house of my father’s correspondent, Monsieur Bort.  He was a very business-looking man, with a short, hard, dry way of speaking.  I found him immersed in his books.  Directly he saw me, he said, abruptly.

“You are young Bonneval.  You come too late.  The others are gone.”

“Oh” And I dropped into a seat, quite stunned by this reverse.

“Mais que voulez-vous?” said he.  “They could not wait.  The opportunity would have been lost.”

“Are they really off, and safe?”

“Off they are, but whether safe—.”  He shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows.  However, seeing my chagrin, he added, “I imagine they are in the river Thames by this time.”

“Do you mean they are ascending the river to London?”

“Precisely.  It may not be so, but we may hope the best.  And you?”—­eyeing me inquiringly.

“What am I to do, sir?  Did my father leave me no word of direction?”

“He left you his blessing, and bade you be a good boy, and submit yourself to my direction.”

“That I will gladly do, if you will direct me.”

“Well, I am pledged to do the best I can for you.  But, unhappily, the surveillance is now so strict that I know not how to smuggle you on board.”

“In a box—­in a cask,” said I, desperately.

“Have you really courage to be packed in that manner?”

“Yes, if there is no alternative.”

“Come, you are un brave garcon!  I respect you for your resolution.  There is a vessel of mine being loaded now, and if you will really go on board in such a way as you propose I think we can manage it, and your durance will not last more than a few hours.  You will be a Regulus without the nails.”