"You da, Biler? You jis come down heah an' help me fotch along dese yar tings. Ef you ain't got notin' to do, Ise precious soon find you lots ob tings. Hurry down, da; make haste; relse I'll pitch some hot water up at you. I can't be boddered wid dese yer pots an' pans any longer, cos Ise got de dinna to meditate 'bout."

With these words Jericho stood up, regarding Biler with an appearance of grave dignity, which would have overawed even a less solemn lad than this. Biler did not refuse obedience, but thrusting a few fragments of dried codfish into his mouth, heaved a sigh, gave another dejected look at surrounding space, and then slowly and mournfully descended to the lower world.

The priest was seated on a water-cask, reading his Breviary, while Zac stood not far off, looking thoughtfully over the vessel's side. Terry was at the tiller, not because there was any steering to be done, but because he thought it would be as well for every one to be at his post in the event of a change of wind. He had whistled "St. Patrick's Day in the Morning," and was about beginning another interminable strain of the same kind. Claude was lounging about, and gradually drew nearer to the meditative Zac, whom he accosted.

"Well, we don't appear to be making much progress—do we?" said he.

Zac slowly shook his head.

"No," said he; "I must say, I don't like this here one mite. 'Tain't quite right. Seems kin' o' unlucky."

"Unlucky? How?"

"Wal, fust and foremost, ef it hadn't been you, you'd never a' got me to pint the Parson's nose for that French hole, Louisbourg."

"Why not?" asked Claude, in some surprise; "you don't suppose that there's any danger—do you?"

"Wal, it's a risky business—no doubt o' that thar. You see, my 'pinion is this, that Moosoo's my nat'ral born enemy, an' so I don't like to put myself into his power."

"O, there's no danger," said Claude, cheerily. "There's peace now, you know—as yet."

Zac shook his head.

"No," said he, "that ain't so. There ain't never real peace out here. There's on'y a kin' o' partial peace in the old country. Out here, we fight, an' we've got to go on fightin', till one or the other goes down. An' as to peace, 'tain't goin' to last long, even in the old country, 'cordin' to all accounts. There's fightin' already off in Germany, or somewhars, they say."

"But you know," said Claude, "you thought you could manage this for me somehow. You said you could put me ashore somewhere without trusting yourself in Louisbourg harbor—some bay or other—wasn't it? I forget what the name is. There's no trouble about that now—is there?"

"Wal, not more'n thar was afore," said Zac, slowly; "on'y it seems more resky to me here, jest now, settin' here this way, inactive like; p'aps it's the fog that's had a kin' o' depressin' effect on my sperrits; it's often so. Or mebbe it's the effect of the continooal hearin' of that darned frog-eatin' French lingo that you go on a jabberin' with the priest thar. I never could abide it, nor my fathers afore me; an' how ever you—you, a good Protestant, an' a Massachusetts boy, an' a loyal subject of his most gracious majesty, King George—can go on that way, jabberin' all day long with that thar priest in that darned outlandish lingo,—wal, it beats me,—it doos clar."

At this Claude burst into a merry laugh.

"Well, by George," he cried, "if this ain't the greatest case of patriotic prejudice! What's the matter with the French language? It's better than English to talk with. Besides, even if it wern't, the French can't help their language. If it were yours, you'd like it, you know. And then I hope you're not beginning to take a prejudice against the good Père Michel. He's as fine a fellow as ever lived, by George!"

"O, mind you, now, I wan't intendin' to say anythin' agin him," said Zac. "I like him, an' can't help it, he's so gentle, an' meek, an' has sech a look out of his eyes. Blamed if I don't sometimes feel jest as though he's my father. O, no, I ain't got anythin' agin' him. Far from it. But it's the idee. For here, you see—this is the way it is; here aboard the Parson I see a Roman Catholic priest; I hear two people jabber French all day long. It makes me feel jest for all the world as though I'd got somehow into the hands of the Philistines. It seems like bein' a captive. It kin' o' seems a sort o' bad lookout; a kin' o' sort o' sign, you know, of what's a goin' to happen afore I git back agin."

At this, which was spoken with much earnestness, and with a very solemn face, Claude gave another laugh.

"O, that's all nonsense," said he, gayly. "Why, you don't really think, now, that you're going to get into trouble through me—do you? And then as to Père Michel, why, I feel as much confidence in him as I do in myself. So come, don't get into this low state of mind, but pluck up your spirits. Never mind the fog, or the French language. They oughtn't to have such an effect on a fellow of your size and general build. You'll put us ashore at that bay you spoke of, and then go home all right. That's the way of it. As to the land, you can't have any danger from that quarter; and as to the sea, why, you yourself said that the French cruiser was never built that could catch you."

"Wal," said Zac, "that's a fac', an' no mistake. Give me any kin' of wind, an' thar ain't a Moosoo afloat that can come anywhar nigh the Parson. Still, jest now, in this here fog,—an' in the calm, too,—if a Moosoo was to come along, why, I railly don't—quite—know—what—I could—railly do."

"The fog! O, in the fog you'll be all right enough, you know," said
Claude.

"O, but that's the very thing I don't know," said Zac. "That thar pint's the very identical pint that I don't feel at all clear about, an' would like to have settled."

Claude said nothing for a few moments. He now began to notice in the face, the tone, and the manner of Zac something very different from usual—a certain uneasiness approaching to anxiety, which seemed to be founded on something which he had not yet disclosed.

"What do you mean?" he asked, rather gravely, suddenly dropping his air of light banter.

Zac drew a long breath.

"Wal," said he, "this here fog makes it very easy for a Moosoo to haul up alongside all of a suddent, an' ax you for your papers. An' what's more," he continued, dropping his voice to a lower tone, and stooping, to bring his mouth nearer to Claude's ear, "what's more, I don't know but what, at this very moment, there's a Moosoo railly an' truly a little mite nearer to us than I altogether keer for to hev him."

"What!" exclaimed Claude, with a start; "do you really think so?
What! near us, here in this fog?"

"Railly an' truly," said Zac, solemnly, "that's my identical meanin'—jest it, exactly; an' 'tain't overly pleasant, no how. See here;" and Zac dropped his voice to still lower tones, and drew still nearer to Claude, as he continued—"see here, now; I'll tell you what happened jest now. As I was a standin' here, jest afore you come up, I thought I heerd voices out thar on the starboard quarter —voices—"

"Voices!" said Claude. "O, nonsense! Voices! How can there be voices out there? It must have been the water."

"Wal," continued Zac, still speaking in a low tone, "that's the very thing I thought when I fust heerd 'em; I thought, too, it must be the water. But, if you jest take the trouble to examine, you'll find that thur ain't enough motion in the water to make any sound at all. 'Tain't as if thar was a puffin' of the wind an a dashin' of the waves.