“I made my escape from the Bagni at Ischia. I had been a galley-slave there.” The bold effrontery of the declaration was made still more startling by a sort of low laugh which followed his words.
“You seem to think it a light matter to have been at the galleys, my friend,” said L'Estrange, half reprovingly. “How did it happen that an Englishman should be in such a discreditable position?”
“It's a long story—too long for a hungry man to tell,” said the sailor; “perhaps too long for your own patience to listen to. At all events, it has no bearing on my present condition.”
“I'm not so sure of that, my good fellow. Men are seldom sentenced to the galleys for light offences; and I 'd like to know something of the man I'm called on to befriend.”
“I make you the same answer I gave before—the story would take more time than I have well strength for. Do you know,” said he, earnestly, and in a voice of touching significance, “it is twenty-eight hours since I have tasted food?”
L'Estrange leaned forward in his chair, like one expecting to hear more, and eager to catch the words aright; and then rising, walked over to the rail where the prisoner stood. “You have not told me your name,” said he, in a voice of kindly meaning.
“I have been called Sam Rogers for some time back; and I mean to be Sam Rogers a little longer.”
“But it is not your real name?” asked L'Estrange, eagerly.
The other made no reply for some seconds; and then, moving his hand carelessly through his hair, said, in a half-reckless way, “I declare, sir, I can't see what you have to do with my name, whether I be Sam Rogers, or—or—anything else I choose to call myself. To you—I believe, at least—to you I am simply a distressed British sailor.”
“And you are Jack Bramleigh?” said L'Estrange, in a low tone, scarcely above a whisper, while he grasped the sailor's hands, and shook them warmly.