"I can't!" gasped Kit—"not in cold blood!"
The lad was face to face with one of the most appalling of God's mysteries, and was unhinged by it. Gwen with the toothache had been nothing to this.
The agonised man rolled his head from side to side.
"Sainte Mere de Dieu, intercédez pour moi!" he wailed.
Again that lightning flashed in the boy's mind.
The man's silver-mounted pistol lay on the deck beside him. He thrust it into the other's hand.
"Here, sir!"
The man clutched it, as one dying in a desert may clutch the flagon of water that means life to him.
The head ceased its dreadful weaving.
"Petit ange! petit Anglais!" he whispered, and tried to smile.