These words fell one after the other slowly and gravely, with a certain implacable rhythm, like the strokes of the axe upon an oak-tree.  Looking at the soldiers, the old man added,—­

“Do your duty!”

The man on whose breast shone the cross of Saint Louis bowed his head, and at a sign of Count Boisberthelot two sailors went down to the gun-deck, and presently returned bringing the hammock-shroud, the two sailors were accompanied by the ship’s chaplain, who since the departure had been engaged in saying prayers in the officers’ quarters.  A sergeant detached from the ranks twelve soldiers, whom he arranged in two rows, six men in a row.  The gunner placed himself between the two lines.  The chaplain, holding a crucifix, advanced and took his place beside the man.  “March!” came from the lips of the sergeant; and the platoon slowly moved towards the bow, followed by two sailors carrying the shroud.

A gloomy silence fell on the corvette.  In the distance a hurricane was blowing.  A few moments later, a report echoed through the gloom; one flash, and all was still.  Then came the splash of a body falling into the water.  The old passenger, still leaning against the mainmast, his hands crossed on his breast, seemed lost in thought.  Boisberthelot, pointing towards him with the forefinger of his left hand, remarked in an undertone to La Vieuville,—­

“The Vendee has found a leader.”

THE MERCHANTS’ CUP

From “Broken Stowage,” BY DAVID W. BONE

I

“Fatty” Reid burst into the half-deck with a whoop of exultation.  “Come out, boys,” he yelled.  “Come out and see what luck!  The James Flint comin’ down the river, loaded and ready for sea!  Who-oop!  What price the Hilda now for the Merchants’ Cup?”

“Oh, come off,” said big Jones.  “Come off with your Merchants’ Cup.  Th’ James Flint’s a sure thing, and she wasn’t more than half-loaded when we were up at Crockett on Sunday!”

“Well, there she comes anyway! James Flint, sure enough!  Grade’s house-flag up, and the Stars and Stripes!”

We hustled on deck and looked over by the Sacramento’s mouth.  “Fatty” was right.  A big barque was towing down beyond San Pedro.  The James Flint!  Nothing else in ’Frisco harbour had spars like hers; no ship was as trim and clean as the big Yankee clipper that Bully Nathan commanded.  The sails were all aloft, the boats aboard.  She was ready to put to sea.

Our cries brought the captain and mate on deck, and the sight of the outward-bounder made old man Burke’s face beam like a nor’west moon.

“A chance for ye now, byes,” he shouted.  “An open race, bedad!  Ye’ve nothin’ t’ be afraid of if th’ James Flint goes t’ sea by Saturday!”