“Pierre, remember that I alone am responsible. Pardon, I pray—”
“Holy Cross!” cried the commander, impetuously, “for the first time since I have commanded this galley, shall I pardon, in the same day, two of the gravest faults that can be committed: the revolt of a slave against a subordinate officer, and the want of discipline in the subordinate officer toward his chief? No, no, that is impossible!” The commander took a whistle from his belt and blew a shrill note through the little silver tube.
A page clothed in black appeared at the door.
“The captain of the mast!” said the commander, abruptly. The page went out.
“Ah, my brother, will you be altogether without pity?” cried Elzear, in a tone of sad reproach.
“Without pity?” and the commander smiled bitterly, “yes, without pity for the faults of others, as for my own faults.”
The priest, remembering the terrible chastisement that his brother had just inflicted upon himself, realised that such a man must be inexorable in the observance of discipline, and bowed his head, renouncing all hope.
The captain of the mast entered.
“You will remain eight nights in irons on the rambade,” said the commander.
The sailor bowed respectfully, without uttering a word.