unwale of the boat.

"No! no!" cried Deruchette.

"It must be, Deruchette," replied Caudray.

"No! never! For the sake of an engine--impossible. Did you see that
horrible man last night? You cannot abandon me thus. You are wise; you
can find a means. It is impossible that you bade me come here this
morning with the idea of leaving me. I have never done anything to
deserve this; you can have no reproach to make me. Is it by that vessel
that you intended to sail? I will not let you go. You shall not leave
me. Heaven does not open thus to close so soon. I know you will remain.
Besides, it is not yet time. Oh! how I love you."

And pressing closely to him, she interlaced the fingers of each hand
behind his neck, as if partly to make a bond of her two arms for
detaining him, and partly with her joined hands to pray. He moved away
this gentle restraint, while Deruchette resisted as long as she could.

Deruchette sank upon a projection of the rock covered with ivy, lifting
by an unconscious movement the sleeve of her dress up to the elbow, and
exhibiting her graceful arm. A pale suffused light was in her eyes. The
boat was approaching.

Caudray held her head between his hands. He touched her hair with a sort
of religious care, fixed his eyes upon her for some moments, then kissed
her on the forehead fervently, and in an accent trembling with anguish,
and in which might have been traced the uprooting of his soul, he
uttered the word which has so often resounded in the depths of the human
heart, "Farewell!"

Deruchette burst into loud sobs.

At this moment they heard a voice near them, which said solemnly and
deliberately:

"Why should you not be man and wife?"

Caudray raised his head. Deruchette looked up.

Gilliatt stood before them.

He had approached by a bye-path.

He was no longer the same man that he had appeared on the previous
night. He had arranged his hair, shaved his beard, put on shoes, and a
white shirt, with a large collar turned over, sailor fashion. He wore a
sailor's costume, but all was new. A gold ring was on his little finger.
He seemed profoundly calm. His sunburnt skin had become pale: a hue of
sickly bronze overspread it.

They looked at him astonished. Though so changed, Deruchette recognised
him. But the words which he had spoken were so far from what was passing
in their minds at that moment, that they had left no distinct
impression.

Gilliatt spoke again:

"Why should you say f