“I live at Dover,” Ralph replied, “and had only come out for a night’s fishing.”

“Well, you are out of luck,” the captain said.  “That will do, Jacques.  Take him forward and sling a hammock for him.  Hang up his clothes in the cook’s galley, they will be dry by the time he wakes.”

Ralph asked no questions, as he was taken forward, as to the character of La Belle Marie.  Six guns were ranged along on each side of her decks, and this, and the appearance of the captain’s cabin, was sufficient to inform him that he had fallen into the hands of a French privateer.  The craft had, indeed, left Dunkirk soon after nightfall, and was making her way down channel with every sail set when she had run down the unfortunate fishing boat.

Jacques, as he hung up the hammock, explained to the sailors who crowded round the character of the passenger who had so unexpectedly come on board.

“Poor lad,” one of the sailors said good-naturedly, “he will be some time before he sees his mother again.  He hasn’t got a very bright lookout before him—­a long voyage, and then a prison.  I will go and see if the cook has got some water hot.  A glass of spirits will do him good.”

A few minutes later Ralph was wrapped up in a blanket and the warm glow produced by that and the glass of strong grog soon sufficed to send him soundly to sleep, in spite of the painful uncertainty of his position and of his sorrowful thought of his mother, who would in the morning be inquiring for him in vain.  It was nearly midday before he woke.  Looking round he saw that he had the forecastle to himself.  His clothes were lying on a chest close by, and in a few minutes he was on deck.  A sense of disappointment stole over him.  He had, while he was dressing, entertained the hope that on going on deck he should see an English cruiser in pursuit; but the wind had dropped and it was still thick, and his vision was confined to a circle a quarter of a mile in diameter.  Jacques nodded to him good-temperedly, for all on board the privateer were in high spirits.  Their voyage had begun propitiously; the darkness of the preceding night had enabled them to ran the gantlet of the British cruisers in the narrow part of the channel, they were now well down the coast of France, and the fog reduced their chances of being seen by an enemy to a minimum.

“Where about are we?” Ralph asked.

“We are somewhere off the mouth of the Seine, and I guess some fifteen miles from land.”

“Oh, we are working down the channel then,” Ralph said.  “And where are we going to?”

“Ah! that question is for the captain to answer if he chooses,” Jacques said.

“Are we going to touch at the next French port?” Ralph asked anxiously.