“Oh, sir!” he cried, passing the bottle to Porthos, “we are saved—the bark is supplied with provisions.”
This intelligence restored every one save Athos to gayety.
“Zounds!” exclaimed Porthos, “’tis astonishing how empty violent agitation makes the stomach.”
And he drank off half a bottle at a draught and bit great mouthfuls of the bread and meat.
“Now,” said Athos, “sleep, or try to sleep, my friends, and I will watch.”
In a few moments, notwithstanding their wet clothes, the icy blast that blew and the previous scene of terror, these hardy adventurers, with their iron frames, inured to every hardship, threw themselves down, intending to profit by the advice of Athos, who sat at the helm, pensively wakeful, guiding the little bark the way it was to go, his eyes fixed on the heavens, as if he sought to verify not only the road to France, but the benign aspect of protecting Providence. After some hours of repose the sleepers were aroused by Athos.
Dawn was shedding its pallid, placid glimmer on the purple ocean, when at the distance of a musket shot from them was seen a dark gray mass, above which gleamed a triangular sail; then masters and servants joined in a fervent cry to the crew of that vessel to hear them and to save.
“A bark!” all cried together.
It was, in fact, a small craft from Dunkirk bound for Boulogne.
A quarter of an hour afterward the rowboat of this craft took them all aboard. Grimaud tendered twenty guineas to the captain, and at nine o’clock in the morning, having a fair wind, our Frenchmen set foot on their native land.