The said Pope was a very extraordinary fellow: a slight fair form,
pointed features, and eyes that were penetrating, despite their common
shade of grey. He was called _Champenois_, his real name unknown, not
more than three-and-twenty, and the Lieutenant of the _Chaine_ said, one
of the most talented and extraordinary characters that _he_ had ever met
with. He had been the prime mover of the intended insurrection, but
without a proof against him, except his universal authority, unusual in
so young a thief. His physiognomy was one, which it required not a
second look in order to remember for ever.
Another figure struck me, not so much as singular in itself, as in
contrast with those around. It struck me as that of an English
cabin-boy, a pale, freckled, ill-conditioned lad. On following the
calling over of the register in roll, I found my conjecture too true. He
was an unfortunate young sailor, a native of England, guilty of some
misdemeanour, and by name Aikin. He understood not a word of French, but
protested with a shake of his head against his being English; patriotism
had in him outlived honesty and self-respect. I spoke to him in English:
he wept, but would not reply, puckering up his poor lips in all the
agony of his desolate condition. I was glad to remark the humanity with
which he had been chained to a prisoner, pensive and downcast like
himself.
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