In the rear, in the middle of a group of chevaliers dressed in black, Father Elzear in his white cassock could be distinguished.
Prayers for the dying were said with as much solemnity as if they were being recited in a church on land, or in a cloister.
It was not a mere form; these monk-soldiers were sad and contemplative. As sailors they saw a vessel without hope; as Christians they prayed for the souls of their brothers. In fact the polacre seemed in danger of going down every moment. The furious waves, rushing into the channel on their way to the sea, broke the current and whirled and tossed in every direction. Her sails, by which she might have made steady headway, were blown under the enormous rocks; her rudder was useless, and she was at the mercy of the wind and waters which rushed back and forth in unabating rage.
The prayers and chants continued without cessation.
Above all the other voices could be heard the manly, sonorous voice of the commander. The slaves on their knees looked in sullen apathy on this desperate struggle of man against the elements.
Suddenly, by an unhoped-for chance, either because the polacre was of such perfect construction, or because she responded finally to the action of her rudder, or because the little triangular sail that she hoisted caught some current of the upper air, the gallant little vessel steadied herself, resumed her headway, and cleared the dangerous passage with the rapidity and lightness of a sea-gull.
A few minutes after she was out of danger, calmly sailing the waters of the road.
This manoeuvre was so unforeseen, so wonderful, and so well executed, that for a moment astonishment suspended the prayers of the chevaliers.
The commander, amazed, said to the officers, after a few moments of breathless silence:
“My brothers, let us thank the Lord for having heard our prayers, and let us sing a song of thanksgiving.”