Many, however, crowded around to examine the features of the corpse. It seemed that of a man of about thirty years of age, of tall, slight figure, brown complexion, black hair, eyebrows, and mustachios, and features that seemed to have originally been regular and handsome, as far as their present distorted and stiffened condition allowed the spectator to judge. Lord Montressor stood among the lookers-on, and, with folded arms and serious brow, gazed upon the face of the dead. And well he might! It was the cause of all his woe—it was the mortal foe of Estelle—it was, in a word, Victoire L’Orient that lay dead before him! No one spoke. “Well?” asked the captain, looking around upon the tamest faces bent over the body. “I can identify this corpse, Captain Brande,” said the solemn voice of Lord Montressor. All eyes were now turned upon his lordship. “Well, my lord?” said the captain. “This is the body of a Frenchman, by name Victoire L’Orient, a native of Paris, and a late passenger on board the Mercury. It would be well, also, to have this identity further proved by Mr. Levering, the rescued passenger below.” And Lord Montressor, having delivered these words, bowed gravely and withdrew from the scene. The corpse was again wrapped in the canvas and carried aft to the stern gallery, where it was laid and covered over, while preparations were made for the burial. Julius Levering, after an hour’s repose, dressed himself in a suit of clothes supplied to him by Lord Montressor’s valet, and came up on deck to look about; hearing that a dead body had been picked up and recognized as that of Victoire L’Orient, he inquired where it lay; and being informed, he went aft to the stern gallery to behold it. Arrived upon the spot, he stooped, raised the covering, and gazed upon the face of the dead. He had a heavy stake in the fate of this man, beside whose corse he stood wrapped in the closest thought. He started like a detected criminal in hearing a voice speak at his side: “I beg your parding, Capting, but do you also know this corpse?” said a man in livery, touching his hat as he joined him. “Yes, my friend, this is the body of Monsieur Victoire L’Orient, my late fellow-passenger,” replied Mr. Levering, recovering his self-possession. “Beg your parding again, Capting, but are you certain, now, as this is really and truly the body of Mounseer Wictwor?” repeated the new-comer, incredulously. “Of course I am, friend,” replied Mr. Levering, gravely. “Can’t possibly be _any body else_ by mistake can it?” “Assuredly not.” “Then he is Mounseer Wictwor to a _dead certainty_?” “To a dead certainty, yes,” answered Mr. Levering, wondering at the strange manner of the intruder. “And was he _drownded_ sure enough?” “Certainly, he was.” “And are you sure he is _quite_ dead?” “Can you not see for yourself?” asked Mr. Levering, beginning to believe his new acquaintance to be a lunatic.