‘May,’ he said, ‘old friend, I have always stood up for you, though I know you’ve done a dark deed. I’ve spoken for you even to this brave boy. He’s your own name, and may-be for aught I know he’s your own flesh and blood. Oh, me old friend! there used to be a deal of good in you, though weak. How could you find it in your heart to do a wrong to a young beginner? That wasn’t like what ye used to be, me old May----’ John had listened with a stupefied air to this speech. May! what did Montressor mean? He caught him by the arm. ‘The man’s name is March,’ he said. This brought, what all other accusations had not done, a faint colour to the culprit’s face. ‘One month’s as good as another,’ he said, with a feeble laugh, ‘and begins with the same letter. So it’s you, Montressor. I didn’t notice who it was: the outer part of you is in better trim than when I saw you the other day.’ The actor replied, with a wave of his hand, ‘What has to be thought upon at present,’ he said, ‘is you and not me.’ This was not the policy of the man who was on his trial. ‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘it’s the fortune of war. The other day I was able to help you as an old friend, and now it’s you that patronise me.’ ‘May,’ said John. He could not get beyond that point. What they said between themselves was nothing to him. He paid no attention to what they said. May! There swept into his mind a quick passing recollection of the feverish anxiety he had once felt to identify somehow and find out his relationship with some one of the name, and the Mayor of Liverpool, whom he had almost disturbed in his state to ask, Do you know anyone----? But he never met anywhere an individual who bore that name till now. ‘Ye see before ye,’ said Montressor, embarrassed, ‘me young friend, the unfortunate man that I was trying to recommend to you the last time we met. He says true, he was better off at that moment than I was; but that makes no difference. Yes, me noble boy. This is the May I told ye of. I have thought there was a likeness in some things between ye; but me wife would not hear me say it, for, John May, ye have the heart of a king: and me poor friend there, though he’s named the same----’ The man, who had not been listening any more than John had listened to the private conversation between his two companions, here woke up from his own thoughts with a slight start. ‘Who,’ he said, ‘are you calling John May? My name is Robert, not John at all--if it is me you mean. My father’s name was John, an honest worthy man. I always made up my mind to call the boy after him. What do you know about John May? that’s not my name, not my name at all. I’m rather in a weak state of health and I can’t bear very much. You wouldn’t speak of such things if you knew that they threw me into a tremble all over, which is very bad for me. Who do you mean by John May?’