He answered, respectfully enough: "A young gentleman, sir, who was washed ashore last night from the brig that went down. We kept him in the barrack, for he was half drowned, although to-day he is as bright as a cricket, and is the only soul that came ashore alive out of the ship."
"Art thou English?" I asked the youth.
"Yes," the young fellow replied, looking at me out of his frank eyes. "In whose hands am I?"
"Ask those who are better acquainted than myself," I replied. "The Count is in the dining hall, my men."
"Come," said one of the sailors, and they led him in to where DeNortier sat.
I watched him as they carried him into the hall; his was a fresh, young face, virile and strong, a captive too, like myself, and I naturally felt an interest in his fate. Turning, I passed back into the dining hall, where the Count, silent and moody, still sat.
He was questioning the lad when I entered.
"What is thy name?" he asked, speaking in English.
"Oliver Gates," the boy replied in the same tone, his head held high.
"What art thou doing in these strange seas?" the other said.