“Well, my boy, I stopped each time something like a month at Dort, and, as a matter of course, I fell over head and ears in love with Maria van Duyk.  I never said a word, though I thought she liked me well enough; but she was for ever talking about you and praising you, and her father spoke of you as his son; and I made sure it was all a settled thing between you, and thought what a sly dog you were never to have breathed a word to me of your good fortune.  If you had never come back I should have tried my luck with her; but when you turned up again, glad as I was to see you, Rupert, I made sure that there was an end of any little corner of hope I had had.

“When you told me about your gallivanting about France with a young lady, I thought for a moment that you might have been in love with her; but then I told myself that you were as good as married to Maria van Duyk, and that the other was merely the daughter of your old friend, to whom you were bound to be civil.  Now I know you are really in love with her, and not with Maria, I will try my luck there, that is, if she doesn’t break her heart and die when she hears of the French girl.”

“Break her heart!  Nonsense, man!” Rupert laughed.  “She was two years older than I was, and looked upon me as a younger brother.  Her father lamented that I was not older, but admitted that any idea of a marriage between us was out of the question.  But I don’t know what he will say to your proposal to take her over to Ireland.”

“My proposal to take her over to Ireland!” repeated Dillon, in astonishment.  “I should as soon think of proposing to take her to the moon!  Why, man, I have not an acre of ground in Ireland, nor a shilling in the world, except my pay.  No; if she will have me, I’ll settle down in Dort and turn Dutchman, and wear big breeches, and take to being a merchant.”

Rupert burst into a roar of laughter.

“You a merchant, Pat!  Mynheer van Duyk and Dillon!  Why, man, you’d bring the house to ruin in a year.  No, no; if Maria will have you, I shall be delighted; but her fortune will be ample without your efforts—­you who, to my positive knowledge, could never keep your company’s accounts without the aid of your sergeant.”

Dillon burst out laughing, too.

“True for you, Rupert.  Figures were never in my line, except it is such a neat figure as Maria has.  Ah, Rupert!  I always thought you a nice lad; but how you managed not to fall in love with her, though she was a year or so older than yourself, beats Pat Dillon entirely.  Now the sooner the campaign is over, and the army goes into winter quarters, the better I shall be pleased.”

It was a dark and squally evening in November, when La Belle Jeanne, one of the fastest luggers which carried on a contraband trade between England and France, ran up the river to Nantes.  She had been chased for twelve hours by a British war ship, but had at last fairly outsailed her pursuers, and had run in without mishap.  On her deck were two passengers; Maitre Antoine Perrot, a merchant, who had been over to England to open relations with a large house who dealt in silks and cloths; and his servant Jacques Bontemps, whose sturdy frame and powerful limbs had created the admiration of the crew of the Belle Jeanne.