Ithuel was left in the fore-cabin, and his presence was announced to Cuffe.
"It's no doubt some poor devil belonging to the Few-Folly's crew," observed the English Captain, in a rather compassionate manner, "and we can hardly think of stringing _him_ up, most probably for obeying an order. That would never do, Griffin: so we'll just step out and overhaul his log in French, and send him off to England to a prison-ship, by the first return vessel."
As this was said, the four in the after-cabin left it together and stood before this new prisoner. Of course Ithuel understood all that was said in English, while the very idea of being catechized in French threw him into a cold sweat. In this strait the idea suddenly crossed his mind that his greatest security would be in feigning dumbness.
"_Écoutez, mon ami_" commenced Griffin, in very respectable English-French, "you are to tell me nothing but the truth, and it may be all the better for you. You belong to the Feu-Follet, of course?"
Ithuel shook his head in strong disgust and endeavored to make a sound that he intended to represent a dumb man struggling to utter the word "Napoli."
"What is the fellow after, Griffin?" said Cuffe. "Can it be he doesn't understand French? Try him a touch in Italian, and let us see what he will say to that."
Griffin repeated very much what he had said before, merely changing the language, and received the same gagging sounds for an answer. The gentlemen looked at each other, as much as to express their surprise. But, unluckily for Ithuel's plan, he had brought with him from the Granite State a certain propensity to pass all the modulations of his voice through his nose; and the effort to make a suppressed sound brought that member more than usually into requisition, thereby producing a certain disagreeable combination that destroyed everything like music that commonly characterizes the Italian words. Now, Andrea had been struck with this peculiarity about the tones of the American's voice, in the interview at Benedetta's wine-house; and the whole connection between Raoul and this singular person being associated in his mind, the truth flashed on him, as it might be, at a glance. His previous success that night emboldened the worthy vice-governatore, and, without any remark, he walked steadily up to Ithuel, removed the wig, and permitted the eel-skin queue to resume its natural position on the back of its owner.