I have said that the man, clearly understanding the captain's meaning, began; but it was not a beginning, nor a middle, nor an end, that could be set down in black and white in that Frenchman's speech. It was most barbarous English, yet intelligible when helped along by the captain's and Hardy's questions. It must be given in plain words to be readable, and thus spoke that sinister-looking man:
"My name is Pierre Renaud. I am chief mate of the barque that was just now nearly running into you. We are from Cape Town to Bordeaux. That dog threatens my throat."
The man flashed the poniards of his eyes at the Newfoundland, who was like an organ with one key going, trembling in its shaggy and splendid bulk with a low, sulky, dangerous growling.
"Down!" said the captain, and the animal stretched its fore legs. "What brings you aboard us?"
"Fear," replied the man, with a slight shrug and a look of arching eyebrow at his questioner, and a roll of the eye over him, as though he saw something singular in his face and manner. "A man loves his life and will jump to save it. I thought we should crush our bows in and founder."
"You did not stay to help your captain and encourage the men to preserve your ship," said Captain Layard, dabbing the dog's head to keep him quiet.
"The captain fell dead in a fright," responded the Frenchman, with another shrug, "and I chose to save myself."
"I saw a man fall," exclaimed Hardy. "Was that you that rushed along the poop?"
"How can I answer you?" replied the Frenchman. "We were all rushing."
"The captain fell dead!" said Captain Layard, in a musing way. "It's evident that French sea-captains die easily. When did you strike this fog?"