"_Premiree fournee!_" announced the sergeant in a loud tone,
marshalling the prisoners along the wall. Four or five of them had
by this time broken out into loud sobs and cries for mercy.
The gentleman scarcely turned his head, but continued to watch the
heating of the irons. At length, satisfied that all was ready, he
turned and walked in front of the line, examining each prisoner
attentively with an absolutely impassive face.
Coming to Tristram--who by this time was committing his fate to
Heaven--he paused for a moment, and beckoning the sergeant put a
question or two. The sergeant shrugged his shoulders and spread out
both palms apologetically. Then the gentleman addressed a sentence
to Tristram, and receiving no answer but a shake of the head, cast
about for a moment and began again in English.
"You are Englishman?"
"Yes, sir."
"Not French deserter?"
"Certainly not."
"Then what the devil you do here?"
This was a question that seemed to require a deal of answering.
While Tristram was perpending how best to begin, his interrogator
spoke again:
"Speak out. I am M. de Lambertie, Grand Provost of Flanders.
You had better speak me the truth."
Our hero began a recital of his woes, condensing as well as he could.
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