"The rogue asked me your name, sir," quoth he, "and when I told him, he asked further whether you were akin to one Master Christopher Rudd of Shirley." "And what said you?" I asked, knowing my servant. "I said, sir, that he were best wash himself." "A proper answer," said I, laughing. "When he has eaten, bring him to me." And when the man came before me, cleaned of his foulness and with his beard trimmed, I saw that he was a goodly fellow, and felt the more sorry for him. "You asked of one Master Christopher Rudd of Shirley," I said; "what have you to do with him?" "Are you his kin, sir?" he asked doubtfully. "We are of one family," I said, "and now you will answer my question." And then he told me a story that filled me with as much trouble as amazement. Chained to him, on his galley, had been a young Frenchman, whom, even before their common misery had made them friends, he had surmised to be a man of rank. When they had learnt to trust each other, the Frenchman and he often talked together of the chances of escape, and each promised the other that, should fortune favour him, he would use his endeavours for behoof of him that was left. Stubbs said that, for his part, he feared he could do little, being an Englishman; whereupon the Frenchman told him that he had sundry good friends among the English, notably Christopher Rudd, of whom indeed he had been a close comrade in the service of King Henry of Navarre. At this I pricked up my ears, and inquired eagerly for the Frenchman’s name. Thereupon Stubbs rolled up his sleeves, and showed me, branded upon his arm, the letters "R. de T.," confessing that he had forgot the name, which indeed did not come easily to his tongue. I needed no more, but knew instantly that the luckless galley-slave could be none other than Raoul de Torcy, who had been my boon fellow when I was in France, and my companion that time when I had the good hap to win King Henry’s favour. I bade Stubbs describe with circumstance the look and character of the Frenchman, and though he was unapt at such a task, his uncouth phrases gave me the assurance I sought, and I could have no manner of doubt that the man now swinking and sweating in one of the worst tortures ever devised by the wit of man was indeed my dear friend. I taxed Stubbs narrowly, to discover by what mishap Raoul, a gentleman of France, had fallen to so pitiful an extremity, but on this point it appeared that Raoul himself was at a loss. He had been kidnapped one day in Calais, cast on board a vessel, and carried to Cadiz: who were his captors, and what moved them to it, were matters hidden from him.