"I think you had better go to Havre immediately."

"Leave Sabine in this condition? Increase her alarm by a hasty departure and an incomprehensible absence after all my promises to her? Abandon her when she needs my care and affection more than ever before,--at the time she is about to marry, in short?"

"Mlle. Sabine?"

"Yes, the idea of this marriage was not at all pleasing to me at first, but now I feel confident that my daughter's future will prove a happy one; still, I ought to guide these children and surround them with the tenderest paternal solicitude, and it is at a time like this that I must put to sea again, and again risk my life now that it has become more necessary than ever to Sabine. I have recovered my senses now, and realise how mad I was to think of killing myself just now. Thanks to you, my tried and faithful friend, I have been saved from that crime."

"I wish I could save you from the visit of our ship's crew as well, M.

Yvon. You must not forget that danger. If you do not go to them, they will surely come to you."

"Then I will go to them," exclaimed Cloarek, as if a way out of the difficulty had suddenly presented itself to his mind. "Yes, I will go to Havre at once, and tell my men that I have abandoned the sea, and that it will be useless for them to attempt to coerce me. You know how determined I am, and how little likelihood there is that I shall yield to overpersuasion. You shall accompany me. You have considerable influence over them, and you must exert it in my behalf. It is the only means of averting the danger that threatens me. It is now two o'clock, by three we shall be in Havre, and back home again by five. My daughter is lying down, and will not even suspect my absence. To avert suspicion, we will take a carriage at the inn."

Cloarek had already started toward the door, when the head gunner checked him by saying:

"You are making a great mistake in one respect, M. Yvon."

"What do you mean?"

"If you go to Havre you will not return here until after the cruise is ended."

"You are mad."

"No, I am not mad."

"You think my crew will carry me away by force, do you?"

"It is very probable. Besides, when you are with the sailors again, you will not have the strength to resist them."

"I will not?"

"No."

"Not after the reasons I have just stated to you? I shall be back here by five o'clock, I tell you, and before my daughter has even discovered my absence. Your fears are absurd. Come, I say."

"You insist?"

"Yes, I do."

"That which is to be, will be," said Segoffin, shaking his head dubiously, but following his employer for all that.

After inquiring how Sabine was feeling, and learning that she had fallen asleep, Cloarek started for Havre in company with his head gunner.

CHAPTER XIX.

AFTER THE STORM.

Three days have elapsed since Yvon Cloarek left his home without notifying his daughter of his intended departure, and this once pleasant and tranquil abode shows traces of recent devastation almost everywhere.

One of the out-buildings have been almost entirely destroyed by fire, and pieces of blackened rubbish and half-burned rafters cover a part of the garden.

The door and several windows on the ground floor, which have been shattered by an axe, have been replaced by boards; several large red stains disfigure the walls, and several of the sashes in the second story have been riddled with shot.

It is midnight.

By the light of a shaded lamp burning in one of the sleeping apartments, one can dimly discern the form of Onesime, and the sheets of the bed on which he is lying are stained with blood in several places.

Suzanne's nephew seems to be asleep. His face is death-like in its pallor, and a melancholy smile is playing upon his parted lips.

An elderly woman in peasant garb is sitting by his bedside, watching him with evident solicitude.

The profound silence that pervades the room is broken by the cautious opening and shutting of the door, and Dame Roberts steals on tiptoe up to the bed, and, drawing one of the curtains a little aside, gazes in upon her nephew with great anxiety.

In three days Suzanne's features have become almost unrecognisable,--sorrow, anxiety, and tears have wrought such ravages in them.

After gazing at Onesime in silence for several seconds, Suzanne stepped back, and, beckoning the attendant to come closer, said to her, in a whisper:

"How has he been since I went out?"

"He hasn't seemed to suffer quite as much, I think."

"Has he complained at all?"

"Very little. He has tried to question me several times, but I remembered your orders and would tell him nothing."

"He has recovered consciousness, then?"

"Entirely, madame. It is very evident that he would be glad enough to talk, if he could get any one to answer his questions."

"Has he asked for me?"

"Oh, yes, madame, he said to me several times: 'My aunt will be in soon, won't she?' I told him that you came in almost every half-hour. He made a slight movement of the head to indicate that he thanked me, and then he fell asleep, but only to wake with a start a few minutes afterward."

"He doesn't seem to suffer much from his wound now, does he?"

"No, madame, only he has had considerable difficulty in breathing once or twice."

"Heaven grant that his wound may not prove fatal!" exclaimed Suzanne, clasping her hands imploringly, and raising her tearful eyes heavenward.

"The surgeon a.s.sured you to the contrary, you know, madame."

"He told me that he had hopes of his recovery, that is all, alas!"

"I think he is waking, madame," whispered the peasant woman, for Onesime had just made a slight movement and uttered a deep sigh.

Suzanne peeped in again, and, seeing that Onesime was not asleep, she said to the peasant: