“Hush!  Do not wrangle before a man who is dying!” cried De Catinat in a voice as fierce as his own.

“Before a man who is dead,” said Amos Green solemnly.

As he spoke the old man’s face had relaxed, his thousand wrinkles had been smoothed suddenly out, as though an invisible hand had passed over them, and his head fell back against the mast.  Adele remained motionless with her arms still clasped round his neck and her cheek pressed against his shoulder.  She had fainted.

De Catinat raised his wife and bore her down to the cabin of one of the ladies who had already shown them some kindness.  Deaths were no new thing aboard the ship, for they had lost ten soldiers upon the outward passage, so that amid the joy and bustle of the disembarking there were few who had a thought to spare upon the dead pilgrim, and the less so when it was whispered abroad that he had been a Huguenot.  A brief order was given that he should be buried in the river that very night, and then, save for a sailmaker who fastened the canvas round him, mankind had done its last for Theophile Catinat.  With the survivors, however, it was different, and when the troops were all disembarked, they were mustered in a little group upon the deck, and an officer of the governor’s suite decided upon what should be done with them.  He was a portly, good-humoured, ruddy-cheeked man, but De Catinat saw with apprehension that the friar walked by his side as he advanced along the deck, and exchanged a few whispered remarks with him.  There was a bitter smile upon the monk’s dark face which boded little good for the heretics.

“It shall be seen to, good father, it shall be seen to,” said the officer impatiently, in answer to one of these whispered injunctions.  “I am as zealous a servant of Holy Church as you are.”

“I trust that you are, Monsieur de Bonneville.  With so devout a governor as Monsieur de Denonville, it might be an ill thing even in this world for the officers of his household to be lax.”

The soldier glanced angrily at his companion, for he saw the threat which lurked under the words.

“I would have you remember, father,” said he, “that if faith is a virtue, charity is no less so.”  Then, speaking in English:  “Which is Captain Savage?”

“Ephraim Savage of Boston.”

“And Master Amos Green?”

“Amos Green of New York.”

“And Master Tomlinson?”

“John Tomlinson of Salem.”

“And master mariners Hiram Jefferson, Joseph Cooper, Seek-grace Spalding, and Paul Cushing, all of Massachusetts Bay?”

“We are all here.”

“It is the governor’s order that all whom I have named shall be conveyed at once to the trading brig Hope, which is yonder ship with the white paint line.  She sails within the hour for the English provinces.”

A buzz of joy broke from the castaway mariners at the prospect of being so speedily restored to their homes, and they hurried away to gather together the few possessions which they had saved from the wreck.  The officer put his list in his pocket and stepped across to where De Catinat leaned moodily against the bulwarks.