admiral; on the poop of the frigate herself there
stood, surrounded by his officers, Admiral Rooke, the brilliant
seaman, soon to win his knighthood and other honours.

The galley had disappeared--was gone forever--and with her had
disappeared most of the sufferers from the cruelty of France, and also
all those who had inflicted that suffering. Of her survivors there
were but a dozen all told, who, some wounded and some untouched, were
being brought on board. Among the latter was No. 211, who, in spite of
the thanks he had given to God for having brought the end of all his
miseries to him, now stood dripping on the deck of the Englishman.

"Send them down to the cockpit to be attended to," the admiral said,
"and let them be well cared for. Poor wretches! they all seem to be
galley slaves; they have suffered enough, God knows, if all accounts
be true!" Then he called to his own men attending to the rescued, and
asked if any were unhurt.

"Only two, sir; this man standing here," and he pointed to 211, "and
one other. He has just fainted."

"Let that man come up to me; I wish to know something of the--the late
galley."

To his surprise the man himself instantly turned and advanced toward
the poop ladder, and slowly mounted it. Then, as he reached the poop
itself he saluted Rooke, raising his hand to his dark, matted hair,
and stood silent and dripping before him and the officers round.

"My man," the admiral said, while his eye roved over the torn and
lacerated bare back and shoulders, saw the old and new cuts and
bruises, and observed the half-starved flanks through which the bones
were plainly visible--"my man, you understand English. Are you an
Englishman?"

"My mother was an English woman," No. 211 replied, in a deep, hollow
voice.

"That any English woman's son should suffer this!" exclaimed the
other, again glancing at the worn, bruised body with warm and manly
indignation. "And that!" pointing out to his officers the
_fleur-de-lis_ roughly branded on his shoulder; sure sign of the
_forcat_. Then, continuing, he asked, "What was your fault?"

"Nothing," 211 answered, as he had answered his brother _galerien_ an
hour before. Only now he lifted his eyes and looked at the admiral, as
though by that straight glance he would force him to believe. "No
crime, no fault. I was--oh!" he broke off, "not now; not now! The
story is too long to tell now."

His tone and bearing--sad and miserable as both were--told al