An officer immediately went to fetch them.
“How many are there of them?” continued Monk; “and what is their vessel?”
“There are ten or twelve of them, general, and they were aboard of a kind of chasse-maree, as it is called—Dutch-built, apparently.”
“And you say they were carrying fish to Lambert’s camp?”
“Yes, general, and they seem to have had good luck in their fishing.”
“Humph! we shall see that,” said Monk.
At this moment the officer returned, bringing the leader of the fishermen with him. He was a man from fifty to fifty-five years old, but good-looking for his age. He was of middle height, and wore a justaucorps of coarse wool, a cap pulled down over his eyes, a cutlass hung from his belt, and he walked with the hesitation peculiar to sailors, who, never knowing, thanks to the movement of the vessel, whether their foot will be placed upon the plank or upon nothing, give to every one of their steps a fall as firm as if they were driving a pile. Monk, with an acute and penetrating look, examined the fisherman for some time, while the latter smiled, with that smile half cunning, half silly, peculiar to French peasants.
“Do you speak English?” asked Monk, in excellent French.
“Ah! but badly, my lord,” replied the fisherman.
This reply was made much more with the lively and sharp accentuation of the people beyond the Loire, than with the slightly-drawling accent of the countries of the west and north of France.