On the jetty, near the captain's gig, they met a tall young man wearing a blue frock-coat, buttoned up to his chin; his face was tanned, his eyes were black, brilliant, wide open, his whole appearance intelligent and frank.

His shoulders, well thrown back, and his little twisted mustache clearly revealed the soldier--for at that period mustaches were by no means common, and the National Guard had not carried the habits and appearance of the guard-room into the bosom of every family.
When the young man saw the colonel he doffed his cap, and thanked him in excellent language, and without the slightest shyness, for the service he was rendering him.
"Delighted to be of use to you, my good fellow!" said the colonel, with a friendly nod, and he stepped into the gig.
"He's not very ceremonious, this Englishman of yours," said the young man in Italian, and in an undertone, to the captain.
The skipper laid his forefinger under his left eye, and pulled down the corners of his mouth.

To a man acquainted with the language of signs, this meant that the Englishman understood Italian, and was an oddity into the bargain.

The young man smiled slightly and touched his forehead, in answer to Mattei's sign, as though to indicate that every Englishman had a bee in his bonnet.

Then he sat down beside them, and began to look very attentively, though not impertinently, at his pretty fellow-traveller.
"These French soldiers all have a good appearance," remarked the colonel in English to his daughter, "and so it is easy to turn them into officers." Then addressing the young man in French, he said, "Tell me, my good man, what regiment have you served in ?" The young man nudged his second cousin's godson's father gently with his elbow, and suppressing an ironic smile, replied that he had served in the Infantry of the Guard, and that he had just quitted the Seventh Regiment of Light Infantry.
"Were you at Waterloo?
You are very young!" "I beg your pardon, colonel, that was my only campaign." "It counts as two," said the colonel.
The young Corsican bit his lips.
"Papa," said Miss Lydia in English, "do ask him if the Corsicans are very fond of their Buonaparte." Before the colonel could translate her question into French, the young man answered in fairly good English, though with a marked accent: "You know, mademoiselle, that no man is ever a prophet in his own country.