One of the galley-slaves, attired like all the others in the regulation red vest and red cap, with the manille, or iron ring fastened to a heavy chain, on his feet, sat on a stone, and was biting into a chunk of black bread.
The galley-slave was Marik Lebrenn.
He had been sentenced to hard labor by a council of war after the June insurrection of 1848.
The merchant's features preserved their usual expression of serenity and firmness. The only change in him was that his face, exposed during his arduous work to the scorching heat of the sun on the water, had acquired, one might say, the color of brick.
A guard, with sword at his side and cane in hand, after having looked over several groups of convicts, stopped, as if he were in search of someone, and then, pointing with his cane in the direction of Marik Lebrenn, called out:
"Halloa, down there—number eleven hundred and twenty!"
The merchant continued to eat his black bread with a hearty appetite and did not answer.
"Number eleven hundred and twenty!" repeated the guard in a louder voice. "Don't you hear me, scamp!"
Continued silence on the part of Lebrenn.
Grumbling and put out at being obliged to take a few more steps, the guard approached Lebrenn at a rapid pace, and touching him with the end of his cane, addressed him roughly: