"I think so," said the old man.
"Please give your orders," replied Boisberthelot.
"It is for you to give them, you are the captain."
"But you are the general," replied Boisberthelot.
The old man looked at the gunner.
"Come forward," he said. The gunner approached.
The old man turned towards the Count de Boisberthelot, took off the cross of Saint-Louis from the captain's coat and fastened it on the gunner's jacket.
"Hurrah!" cried the sailors.
The mariners presented arms.
And the old passenger pointing to the dazzled gunner, added,—
"Now, have this man shot."
Dismay succeeded the cheering.
Then in the midst of the death-like stillness, the old man raised his voice and said,—
"Carelessness has compromised this vessel. At this very hour, it is perhaps lost. To be at sea is to be in front of the enemy. A ship making a voyage is an array waging war. The tempest is concealed, but it is at hand. The whole sea is an ambuscade. Death is the penalty of any misdemeanor committed in the face of the enemy. No fault is reparable. Courage should be rewarded, and negligence punished."
These words fell one after another, slowly, solemnly, in a sort of inexorable metre, like the blows of an axe upon an oak.
And the man, looking at the soldiers, added,—
"Let it be done."
The man on whose jacket hung the sinning cross of Saint-Louis, bowed his head.
At a signal from Count de Boisberthelot, two sailors went below and came back bringing the hammock-shroud; the chaplain, who since they sailed had been at prayer in the officers' quarters, accompanied the two sailors; a sergeant detached twelve marines from the line and arranged them in two files, six by six; the gunner, without uttering a word, placed himself between the two files. The chaplain, crucifix in hand, advanced and stood beside him. "March," said the sergeant.—The platoon marched with slow steps to the bow of the vessel. The two sailors
