Monk, whose scrutinizing glance had not been able to find a
single shade in the clear eye of the fisherman. "Holloa,
Digby!" An aide-de-camp appeared. "You will conduct this
good fellow and his companions to the little tents of the
canteens, in front of the marshes, so that they will be near
their bark, and yet will not sleep on board to-night. What
is the matter, Spithead?"

Spithead was the sergeant from whom Monk had borrowed a
piece of tobacco for his supper. Spithead, having entered
the general's tent without being sent for, had drawn this
question from Monk.

"My lord," said he, "a French gentleman has just presented
himself at the outposts and wishes to speak to your honor."

All this was said, be it understood, in English; but
notwithstanding, it produced a slight emotion in the
fisherman, which Monk, occupied with his sergeant, did not
remark.

"Who is the gentleman?" asked Monk.

"My lord," replied Spithead, "he told it me, but those
devils of French names are so difficult to pronounce for a
Scotch throat, that I could not retain it. I believe,
however, from what the guards say, that it is the same
gentleman who presented himself yesterday at the halt, and
whom your honor would not receive."