e soldiers laughed....

Suddenly, there was a great creaking sound....

--What the hell's that? What's going on?

--We've just lost the rudder, said a thoroughly sea-drenched sailor who
was running through the 'tween-decks.

--Have a good trip! cried the never-say-die Brigadier, but this time
the remark caused no laughter.

There was chaos on deck, but everything was hidden by the fog. The
sailors were all over the place, scared, and groping about.... No
rudder! Changing course was impossible.... The _Semillante_ could only
run before the wind.... It was at that moment that the customs' officer
saw her; it was half past eleven. In front of the frigate, a sound like
a cannon shot was heard.... The breakers! the breakers! It was all up,
there was no hope, ship and men together were going straight onto a lee
shore.... The Captain went down into his cabin.... After a short time
he reappeared on the quarter-deck--in full dress uniform... He wanted
to look right when he died.

In the 'tween-decks, the soldiers were anxiously exchanged glances
without saying a word.... The sick were doing their best to get on
their feet.... Even the Brigadier wasn't laughing any more.... It was
then that the door opened and the Chaplain appeared on the threshold
wearing his stole:

--Kneel down, my children!

Those who could obeyed, and in a resounding voice, the priest began the
prayer for the dying.

Suddenly, there was a formidable impact, a cry, one cry consisting of
many, an immense cry, their arms fully tensed, their hands all clasped
together, their shocked faces looking at a vision of death as it passed
before them like a stroke of lightning....

Mercy!...

That is how I spent the whole night, ten years after the event,
reliving, and evoking the spirit of the ill-fated ship whose wreckage
was all around me. Far away, in the straits, the storm was still raging
on. The camp-fire's flame was blown flat by a gust of wind, and I could
hear our boat bobbing listlessly about at the foot of the rocks, its
mooring squealing.

THE CUSTOMS' MEN

The boat _Emilie_ from Porto-Vecchio, on which I had made the mournful
voyage to the Lavezzi Islands, was a small, old, half-decked, customs'
vessel, with no shelter available from the wind, the waves, nor even
the rain, save in a small, tar covered deckhouse, hardly big enough for
a table and two bunks. It was unbelievable what the sailors had to put
up with in bad weather. Thei