The young man suffered this examination in a silence which seemed to defy Pichegru's scrutiny.
"Hungarian or Russian?" asked Pichegru in French.
"Polish," replied the young man, laconically, in the same language.
"An exile then?" asked Pichegru.
"Worse than that!"
"Poor people! So brave and so unfortunate!" and he held out his hand to the young man.
"Wait," said the latter; "before doing me this honor, you must know—"
"Every Pole is brave," said Pichegru. "Every exile has the right to the hand-clasp of a patriot."
But the Pole seemed to take a certain pride in refusing to accept this courtesy until he had proved that he had a right to it. He pulled out a little leathern bag which he wore upon his breast, as the Neapolitans wear their amulets, and took a folded paper from it.
"Do you know Kosciusko?" asked the young man, his eyes flashing as he spoke.