“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.”
“That is true; I was holding a council of officers.”
“Will your honor give any orders respecting this gentleman?”
“Yes, let him be brought here.”
“Must we take any precautions?”
“Such as what?”
“Binding his eyes, for instance.”
“To what purpose? He can only see what I desire should be seen; that is to say, that I have around me eleven thousand brave men, who ask no better than to have their throats cut in honor of the parliament of Scotland and England.”
“And this man, my lord?” said Spithead, pointing to the fisherman, who, during this conversation, had remained standing and motionless, like a man who sees but does not understand.