made a military salute to the unknown in peasant garb, and said
to him:

"General, here is the man."

The gunner held himself erect, his eyes downcast, standing in a soldierly
attitude.

Count du Boisberthelot continued:

"General, taking into consideration what this man has done, do you not
think there is something for his commanders to do?"

"I think there is," said the old man.

"Be good enough to give the orders," returned Boisberthelot.

"It is for you to give them. You are the captain."

"But you are the general," answered Boisberthelot.

The old man looked at the gunner.

"Approach," said he.

The gunner moved forward a step. The old man turned toward Count du
Boisberthelot, detached the cross of Saint-Louis from the captain's
uniform and fastened it on the jacket of the gunner.

"Hurrah!" cried the sailors.

The marines presented arms. The old passenger, pointing with his finger
toward the bewildered gunner, added:

"Now let that man be shot."

Stupor succeeded the applause.

Then, in the midst of a silence like that of the tomb, the old man raised
his voice. He said:

"A negligence has endangered this ship. At this moment she is perhaps
lost. To be at sea is to face the enemy. A vessel at open sea is an army
which gives battle. The tempest conceals, but does not absent itself. The
whole sea is an ambuscade. Death is the penalty of any fault committed in
the face of the enemy. No fault is reparable. Courage ought to be rewarded
and negligence punished."

These words fell one after the other, slowly, solemnly, with a sort of
inexorable measure, like the blows of an ax upon an oak.

And the old man, turning to the soldiers, added:

"Do your duty."

The man upon whose breast shone the cross of Saint-Louis bowed his head.

At a sign from Count du Boisberthelot, two sailors descended between
decks, then returned, bringing the hammock winding sheet. The ship's
chaplain, who since the time of sailing had been at prayer in the
officers' quarters, accompanied the two sailors; a sergeant detached from
the line twelve marines, whom he arranged in two ranks, six by six; the
gunner, without uttering a word, placed himself between the two files. The
chaplain, crucifix in hand, advanced and stood near him.

"March!" said the sergeant.

The platoon moved with slow steps toward the bow. The two sailors who
carried the shroud followed.

A gloomy silence fell upon the corvette. A hurricane moaned i