“Who are you then?” continued Fabian, in a mingled tone of astonishment and regret, for he repudiated the idea that a Mediana would have recourse to a cowardly subterfuge.
“I was the Count de Mediana,” replied the prisoner, with a haughty smile, “until by my sword I acquired other titles. At present I am known in Spain as the Duke de Armada. It is the name I shall transmit to the descendant of my line, whom I may choose as my adopted son.”
The latter phrase, incidentally spoken by the prisoner, proved in the sequel his sole means of defence.
“Right,” said Fabian, “the Duke de Armada shall hear of what crime Don Antonio de Mediana is accused. Speak Bois-Rose! tell us what you know, and nothing more.”
The rough and energetic countenance of the gigantic descendant of the Norman race, as he stood motionless beside them, his carbine supported on his broad shoulder, was expressive of such calm integrity, that his appearance alone banished all idea of perjury. Bois-Rose drew himself up, slowly removed his fur cap, and in doing so discovered his fine open brow to the gaze of all.
“I will only speak of what I know,” said he.
“On a foggy night, in the month of November, 1808, I was a sailor on board a French smuggling-vessel called the Albatros.
“We had landed according to a plan formed with the captain of the carabiniers of Elanchovi, on the coast of the Bay of Biscay. I will not relate to you,” and here Pepé could not repress a smile, “how we were fired upon, and repulsed from the shore where we had landed as friends. It is sufficient for you to know that when we again reached our vessel, I was attracted by the screams of a child, which seemed to come from the depths of the ocean.
“These cries proceeded from a boat which had been abandoned.
“I pushed out towards it at the risk of my own life, since a brisk fire was opened upon our ship.