"The old one is well punished for his roguery," said Le Marchant with a
relish. "And after his prayers too! Diable, but he stinks!"

"He gave us a good supper, however."

"So that we might breakfast en route for a King's ship! Non, merci! No more
mealy mouths for me." And to me also it was a lesson I have never
forgotten.

Our first idea had been to run due east till we struck the coast of
Holland, which we knew must be something less than one hundred and fifty
miles away. But Le Marchant, who knew the smuggling ports better than I,
presently suggested that we should run boldly south by east for Dunkerque
or Boulogne, and he affirmed that it was little if any farther away than
the Dutch coast, and even if it was, we should land among friends and save
time and trouble in the end. So, as the weather and wind seemed like to
hold, we turned to the south, and kept as straight a course as we could,
and met with no interference. The setting sun trued our reckoning and we
ran on by the stars.

The keg in the bows contained good Dutch rum, and we drank sparingly at
times for lack of other food. Once during the night we heard guns, and our
course carried us close enough to see the flashes, but we were content
therewith, and went on about our business, glad to be of small account and
unseen.

When the sun rose, there stole out of the shadows on our right white cliffs
and a smiling green land, which Le Marchant said was the coast of Kent, so
we ran east by south and presently raised a great stretch of sandy dunes,