The prisoners fell into line, and Stackanoff slowly inspected them.
“Who is this?” he asked, as he came opposite Pierre. “This is a Frenchman.”
“He came with two other prisoners this morning, Excellency,” answered the jailer. “They were wrecked and washed into the harbour.”
“Fool! What do I care about their method of reaching here?” snarled Stackanoff, turning on the trembling man. “They are prisoners. That is good enough. Bring them before me.”
“It’s all up, Tony,” whispered Phil. “We are to be brought before him.”
“Let him take care, that’s all!” muttered Tony, looking daggers at the Russian. “I’ll down the fellow yet.”
Stackanoff stared at them spitefully when they were marched in front of him, but for the moment did not recognise them.
“Ha! what is this?” he suddenly exclaimed, gazing at Phil. “Your face I know. Who are you? Ah!—villain!” And suddenly realising that Phil was the Englishman who had thrown him from his saddle and brought him into disgrace, he drew his sword, and, mad with rage, threw himself upon him with tigerish fury.
Phil was helpless. Another moment and he would have been cut down, when Tony grappled with the angry Russian, and, picking him up like a child, turned him upside-down, and, using all his strength, held him there, cursing and screaming with rage, and with his head resting on the floor.
“Get hold of his sword, Phil,” he shouted. “Now I’ll let him up if he promises to behave.”