Finally, falling on his knees, he threw himself upon the medallions, as if he feared they might escape his grasp.
He seized the portraits. One of them represented a woman of resplendent beauty. He was not mistaken; he had recognised it.
The other was the face of a child.
The pirate let the medallion fall on the floor; he was petrified with amazement. He had just recognised Erebus! Erebus, at least, as he was fifteen years before, when he had carried him away from the coasts of Languedoc!
Still doubting what he saw with his own eyes, he rallied from this passing weakness, picked up the medallion, recalled his memories with exactness, to provide against every error, and again examined the portrait with a consuming anxiety. It was Erebus, indeed,—Erebus at the age of five years.
Then Pog threw himself on the floor with the letters, and read them on his knees without a thought of rising. The scene was something terrible,—ghastly.
This man, pale, stained with blood, kneeling in the middle of that lugubrious chamber, read with eagerness the pages which revealed to him, at last, the dark mystery which he had sought for so many years.
CHAPTER XXXIV. THE LETTERS
We will now put before the eyes of the reader the letters that Pog was reading with such painful attention.