Without the slightest change in his grave countenance, or his appearing in the least degree offended by Lancey’s free-and-easy manner, the red-bearded officer again turned to address the captain. Lancey now observed that the latter replied with a degree of deferential respect which seemed unnatural in mere brother officers.
“You is regarded as a spy,” said the red-beard, turning once more to Lancey, and fixing his cold grey eye intently on him, as if to read his thoughts.
“No, I ain’t a spy,” returned the unfortunate man, somewhat bitterly, “nor never mean to be. ’Ang me if you like. I’ve nothink more to say.”
Neither the captain nor the red-bearded officer replied, but the former waved his hand, and the two sailors who had led Lancey to the cabin again seized him and led him away, more roughly than before. The free spirit of my poor servant resented this unnecessary rudeness, and he felt a strong inclination to fight, but discretion, or some faint remembrance of scimitars and bowstrings, induced him to submit.
Full well did he know what was the fatal doom of a spy, and a sinking of the heart came over him as he thought of immediate execution. At the very least, he counted on being heavily ironed and thrust into the darkest recesses of the hold. Great, then, was his surprise when the man who had at first acted as interpreter took him below and supplied him with a dry shirt and a pair of trousers.
Thankfully accepting these, and standing between two guns, he put them on.
“Who is the hofficer with the red beard?” he asked, while thus engaged.
The interpreter seemed unwilling to answer at first, but, on a repetition of the question replied—
“Pasha.”
“Pasha, eh? Ah, that accounts for the respect of the cap’n—rather shorter in the legs these ’ere than I could ’ave wished; ’owever, beggars, they say, mustn’t be—well, they’re wide enough anyhow.—A Pasha, is ’e? Don’t look like a sailor, though. Is ’e a sailor?”