Suddenly he straightened himself up, his complexion paler than usual, his eyes brilliant, and his lips contracted.
He passed his hand over his forehead to fasten the bandage around his wound, which had become disarranged. As he let his arm fall from weakness, he felt near the partition an object which he had not remarked. It was the casket which Hadji had thrown on board the Red Galleon, and that one of the men had left in the captain’s chamber.
Pog mechanically took up the casket and placed it on his knees. The Maltese cross embossed on the lid met his sight, and made him start.
He threw it abruptly away from him; the scarf became untied, and fell open.
Quite a large number of letters rolled on the floor, with two medallions, and a long tress of blond hair.
Pog was seated on his bed; the medallions had fallen a considerable distance from him.
The light in his chamber was pale and fluctuating.
By what miracle of love, of hatred, or of vengeance, did he recognise instantly the features that he had never forgotten?
The event was so startling, so dreadful, that at first he believed himself to be the sport of a dream.
He did not dare move. His body leaning forward, his eyes fixed on the medallion, he feared every moment to see what he took for a vision of his excited imagination vanish from his sight.