“That’s impossible; for the night was too dark to distinguish a man’s features.”

And that would have been equivalent to a confession; and he would have had nothing to answer the magistrate, if the latter had asked at once,—­

“How do you know that the darkness was so great on the banks of the Dong-Nai?  It seems you were there, eh?”

Quite pallid with fright, the accused simply said,—­

“The officer must be mistaken.”

“I think not,” replied the magistrate.

Turning to Daniel, he asked him,—­

“Do you persist in your declaration, lieutenant?”

“More than ever, sir; I declare upon honor that I recognize the man’s voice.  When he offered me a boat, he spoke a kind of almost unintelligible jargon, a mixture of English and Spanish words; but he did not think of changing his intonation and his accent.”

Affecting an assurance which he was far from really feeling, Crochard, surnamed Bagnolet, shrugged his shoulders carelessly, and said,—­

“Do I know any English?  Do I know any Spanish?”

“No, very likely not; but like all Frenchmen who live in this colony, and like all the marines, you no doubt know a certain number of words of these two languages.”

To the great surprise of the doctor and of Daniel, the prisoner did not deny it; it looked as if he felt that he was on dangerous ground.

“Never mind!” he exclaimed in the most arrogant manner.  “It is anyhow pretty hard to accuse an honest man of a crime, because his voice resembles the voice of a rascal.”

The magistrate gently shook his head.  He said,—­

“Do you pretend being an honest man?”

“What!  I pretend?  Let them send for my employers.”

“That is not necessary.  I know your antecedents, from the first petty theft that procured you four months’ imprisonment, to the aggravated robbery for which you were sent to the penitentiary, when you were in the army.”

Profound stupor lengthened all of Crochard’s features; but he was not the man to give up a game in which his head was at stake, without fighting for it.

“Well, there you are mistaken,” he said very coolly.  “I have been condemned to ten years, that is true, when I was a soldier; but it was for having struck an officer who had punished me unjustly.”

“You lie.  A former soldier of your regiment, who is now in garrison here in Saigon, will prove it.”

For the first time the accused seemed to be really troubled.  He saw all of a sudden his past rising before him, which until now he had thought unknown or forgotten; and he knew full well the weight which antecedents like his would have in the scales of justice.  So he changed his tactics; and, assuming an abject humility, he said,—­

“One may have committed a fault, and still be incapable of murdering a man.”

“That is not your case.”