“Monsieur, the fortune of war places us in your power; we yield ourselves prisoners, and claim your clemency.”
“On what ground do you claim that? Where are the passengers and crew of this ship who sailed in her from Calcutta?” exclaimed Ronald.
“The fortune of war threw them into our hands, as we have been thrown into yours,” answered the captain, drawing himself up. “The courtesy for which our nation is famed has prompted their captors to treat them with courtesy.”
“I trust so,” exclaimed Morton, with a look which the Frenchman could not fail to understand. “But tell me—what commission do you bear? Do you belong to the Imperial marine of France?”
Morton asked these questions with an agitation he could scarcely conceal, for from the appearance of the captain and his crew he could not help dreading that those in whom he took so deep an interest had fallen into the power of a band of pirates; all the atrocities of which such ruffians could be guilty occurred to him.
“Speak, man; tell me—what are you?” he shouted, for the man seemed to be hesitating about giving a reply.
“What we are you perceive, monsieur,” he answered. “We are cavaliers and Frenchmen, and are at present prisoners to an honourable enemy; as such we expect to be treated.”
“How you are ultimately treated depends on your conduct towards those whom you have had in your power,” said Morton. “Enable us to recover them, and you need have no fear on that score.”
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders, and protested that he had had nothing to do with the capture of the Indiaman; that he had been put in charge of her by others to carry her home, and, moreover, that he knew nothing of the passengers, except that he had been assured that they were in safety.
When Morton interrogated him as to where he had last come from, he declared that he had been, with his crew, put on board at sea, from a country craft, and the captors of the ship had taken all the passengers out and carried them he knew not where.