"Get the men ready—those that are able-bodied," said La Vireville, snatching up his sword. "I will be with you in an instant."
"There is such a cursed wind!" grumbled the Chouan, disappearing with his lantern.
La Vireville knelt down by Le Goffic. "Good-bye, Charles! If the worst come to the worst, and if I do not return, there are plenty of slightly wounded men here in St. Pierre who can take you off to the English squadron. I have seen to that already."
The young man looked up at his leader with undimmed affection and trust shining out of his sunken eyes, and put his hot hands over La Vireville's right, that held the sheathed sword.
"If you do not come back, I would rather have died with you, Monsieur le Chevalier! Let me fasten on your sword for you . . . you cannot do it with your arm thus."
The feeble fingers fumbled with the buckle, but Fortuné, guessing what the rendering of that last service meant to his young lieutenant, waited patiently till they had accomplished their task. Then he stooped down and kissed him, French fashion, on both cheeks.
Outside was darkness, confusion, and violent wind. But his men were marshalling. Already Vauban's Chouans, in disorder and with recriminations, were setting out up the peninsula towards the scene of the fresh disaster.
"Are all here who should be?" shouted Fortuné in Grain d'Orge's ear.
The old Chouan held a half-cocked pistol in his other hand. He nodded. "All but Yannik. He said he would not go, so I——" He lifted the pistol.