The door creaked-to again; I heard a sound as of some one settling himself comfortably, and then all was once more silent, save for the sound of heavy breathing, of which I had been cognisant all through the foregoing conversation.
I had been fully awakened, as may easily be supposed, by almost the first words which I had distinctly heard; but I had presence of mind enough not to give any indication of the fact. It was clear that this rascally Corsican—who appeared to be regularly in league with the enemy—had unfortunately witnessed my landing, and he must also have overhead and understood much if not all of the conversation which had passed between Rawlings and myself. And it seemed equally clear that he had put the Frenchmen upon my track, and that to him I was chiefly indebted for my unlucky capture—for of course I was a prisoner, though they had not roused me to make me acquainted with the fact. As soon as the conversation ceased, I rapidly turned the circumstances over in my mind, and decided upon two things, one of which was to keep secret my knowledge of the French language, and the other, to act upon the idea suggested by the sergeant’s words, and lead him to believe that my bag with the despatches had been stolen from me. For the rest, I was unable to form any plan, my original one of passing for a German art student being completely knocked on the head by the Corsican’s discovery; so I resolved to be governed by the turn which events might take.
On one thing I was resolved, and that was to keep careful watch for an opportunity to escape, as I was in imminent risk of being hanged or shot at any moment, so long as I remained a prisoner.
Notwithstanding my anxiety, I was dozing off once more, when footsteps approached me, a hand was laid on my shoulder, and the voice of the sergeant exclaimed in French, “Hallo, here! awake, my young friend, awake!”
I opened my eyes with a start, and saw standing before me a young man of about four-and-twenty years of age. He was dressed in the uniform of a French regiment of the line—blue tunic, red trowsers with a stripe of yellow braid down the seam, red forage cap trimmed with the same, and his sword buckled close up to his belt. He had dark hair and eyes, the latter of which beamed upon me good-naturedly, and he had a pleasant expression of countenance, which afforded me much comfort.
Seated or reclining in more or less uncomfortable attitudes against the walls of the hut were some five-and-twenty men wearing a similar uniform, their muskets being piled in the middle of the room; while, apart from the rest, was a man standing with his back towards me, gazing abstractedly out of the window. He was dressed in the ordinary Corsican garb, and was leaning upon a long-barrelled musket, the butt of which rested upon the floor, his hands being crossed upon the muzzle of the barrel, and his chin resting upon them.
“Good morning!” said I in English to the sergeant, as I struggled to my feet; “who are you, pray, and where have you come from?”
“Approach, most amiable Guiseppe, and lend us your valuable aid as interpreter,” said the sergeant, turning to the Corsican; “and see, my friend, that you interpret correctly. What was it he said?”
The Corsican, whose brutal and sinister countenance fully justified the sergeant’s previous remarks upon it, translated my salutation into excellent French.
“Tell him,” said the sergeant, “that you saw him land, and overheard sufficient of his conversation with his fellow-officer to satisfy you that he is the bearer of despatches from the English to one of your countrymen; that you betrayed him, and that I and my men were in consequence sent out to scour the country in search of him. Tell him also that, being found, he may make up his mind to be hanged before sunset; or—no, do not say anything about the hanging at present, he will know all about that soon enough, poor lad!”