each side of the mainmast, and at a whistle from the boatswain, the crew, who were occupied in the rigging, took up their position on the yards. The Count advanced toward the old passenger; behind him walked a man with haggard features, panting for breath, his dress torn and disordered, and yet with a smile of satisfaction on his face. It was the gunner who had at the right moment displayed his skill as a tamer of monsters, and who had vanquished the rebellious cannon. The count saluted in military fashion the old man clothed as a peasant, and said: The gunner stood upright in the attitude of attention, his eyes fixed upon the ground. The Count continued: "General, considering the act performed by this man, do you not think that we, his superiors, should take some notice of the matter?" "I think we should," replied the old man. "Will you be good enough to give your orders then?" "It is for you to give them, you are the captain." The old man cast a keen glance on the gunner. "Come near," said he. The gunner advanced a step. The old man, turning to the Count, took from his breast the Cross of Saint Louis, and fastened it on the jacket of the gunner. "Hurrah!" cried the sailors. The marines presented arms. Then the old passenger, pointing his finger at the astonished gunner, exclaimed: "And now let them shoot this man!"' Applause gave way to surprise. Then, in the midst of a sepulchral silence, the old man raised his voice and said, "An act of negligence has compromised the safety of the vessel. At this moment perhaps we are lost. To be at sea, is to be in the presence of the enemy. A vessel on a voyage is like an army ready to give battle. The storm may not be visible, but it is not far away. The sea is an ambush. All faults committed in the presence of the enemy are punishable with death. No fault is reparable. Courage will be recompensed, and neglect punished." The words fell from his lips one after the other slowly and sternly with a sort of inexorable cadence, like the blows of an ax upon an oak. Then the old man, looking at the marines, added, "Do your duty." The man on whose breast the Cross of Saint Louis shone bent his head. At a sign from the Count the marines descended to the lower deck and brought up a hammock. The chaplain of the vessel, who since its departure had been at prayer in the officers' cabin, accompanied the two sailors; a sergeant detailed twelve privates from the marines and drew them up in a double-rank. The gunner without a word moved forward and placed himself between them. The chaplain with the crucifix raised in his hand took up his position near the prisoner. The sergeant gave the word of command. "March." The firing party moved forward at a slow pace, followed by two sailors carrying the hammock. There was a melancholy silence all over the ship. In the distance the tempest moaned. A few moments afterward a volley crashed through the gloom, there was a bright flash, then all was darkness and silence, and something fell into the sea with a heavy splash. TIME'S SILENT LESSON Upon a cliff that frowned above the sea The while I watched This silent toiler at his silent task, A rosy boy came bounding to the spot. He paused awhile to note, with pleased surprise, One, two, three, four. But ah! they go too slow. No answer came To this sweet childish plea. The aged man Exact account of what he meteth out, Now, like the dawn. That breaks in summer skies-so fair, so fresh, "O venerable man! If thou wouldst be the friend of friendless souls; That frown upon our love. We have no day Save in each other's smiles. Thy hand alone Then shake your glass, good father, shake the sands, Untempted yet by that alluring voice, Another came, A pallid man, with eyes of lurid fire; He clutched the outstretched hand that held the glass, "Hold! dotard, hold! Waste not those precious sands. I have brief space for penitence and prayer: Still no reply, no token that he heard These varied pleas, came from that stern old man. |