writing on the back of the parchment. The roll of the waves
inconvenienced him. He wrote thus for some time.

As he wrote, the doctor remarked the gourd of aguardiente, which the
Provençal tasted every time he added a grain of pimento to the puchero,
as if he were consulting it in reference to the seasoning. The doctor
noticed the gourd, not because it was a bottle of brandy, but because of
a name which was plaited in the wickerwork with red rushes on a
background of white. There was light enough in the cabin to permit of
his reading the name.

The doctor paused, and spelled it in a low voice,--

"Hardquanonne."

Then he addressed the cook.

"I had not observed that gourd before; did it belong to Hardquanonne?"

"Yes," the cook answered; "to our poor comrade, Hardquanonne."

The doctor went on,--

"To Hardquanonne, the Fleming of Flanders?"

"Yes."

"Who is in prison?"

"Yes."