"Only two, sir; this man standing here," and he pointed to 211, "and one other. He has just fainted."
"Let that man come up to me; I wish to know something of the—the late galley."
To his surprise the man himself instantly turned and advanced toward the poop ladder, and slowly mounted it. Then, as he reached the poop itself he saluted Rooke, raising his hand to his dark, matted hair, and stood silent and dripping before him and the officers round.
"My man," the admiral said, while his eye roved over the torn and lacerated bare back and shoulders, saw the old and new cuts and bruises, and observed the half-starved flanks through which the bones were plainly visible—"my man, you understand English. Are you an Englishman?"
"My mother was an English woman," No. 211 replied, in a deep, hollow voice.
"That any English woman's son should suffer this!" exclaimed the other, again glancing at the worn, bruised body with warm and manly indignation. "And that!" pointing out to his officers the fleur-de-lis roughly branded on his shoulder; sure sign of the forcat. Then, continuing, he asked, "What was your fault?"
"Nothing," 211 answered, as he had answered his brother galérien an hour before. Only now he lifted his eyes and looked at the admiral, as though by that straight glance he would force him to believe. "No crime, no fault. I was—oh!" he broke off, "not now; not now! The story is too long to tell now."
His tone and bearing—sad and miserable as both were—told all who stood around him that this was no common man, no malefactor flung to the slave ship for an ignoble crime, no wretched printer sent to the galleys for producing Protestant pamphlets, or chapel clerk for assisting in a Protestant service.
"You are of gentle blood?" the admiral asked kindly. "Followed, doubtless, the calling of a gentleman? What are you?"
"I was a cavalry officer of King Louis. But broken and ruined for—for——" and again he broke off.