"He knows both well enough, sir," said I; "this silence is a mere defiance of us."
"Parbleu!" cried an officer, "that is the 'coquin' took poor Delactre's equipments; the very uniform he has on was his."
"The fellow was never a soldier," said another.
"I know him well," interposed a third, "he is the very terror of the townsfolk."
"Who gave him his commission?—who appointed him?" asked Serazin.
Apparently the fellow could follow some words of French, for as the General asked this he drew from his pocket a crumpled and soiled paper, which he threw heedlessly upon the table before us.
"Why this is not his name, sir," said I: "this appointment is made out in the name of Nicholas Downes, and our friend here is called Dowall."
"Who knows him? who can identify him?" asked Serazin.
"I can say that his name is Dowall, and that he worked as a porter on the quay in this town when I was a boy," said a young Irishman who was copying letters and papers at a side-table. "Yes, Dowall," said the youth, confronting the look which the other gave him, "I am neither afraid nor ashamed to tell you to your face that I know you well, and who you are, and what you are."