“There is no doubt, monseigneur, that the culverin of Maison-Forte did them great damage, for Pierron, the fisherman, told me that he saw them fire that artillery the whole time the galleys of those demons were doubling the point of the island Verte, and that pass is a fine aim for the culverin; Master Laramée has told me so a thousand times.”
“The vengeance of the Lord will overtake these robbers, glutted with blood and pillage,” said the commander, in a hollow voice. “Perhaps I shall be able to snatch my brother’s unfortunate daughter from their hands.”
“And also her attendant, Stephanette, if you please, monseigneur,” said Luquin. “These brigands, no doubt, have carried her off with the aid of a cursed Bohemian, that the good God will send some day, perhaps, within reach of my arm.”
“There is not a moment to lose,” said the commander, after a few moments’ reflection. Then addressing Luquin, he said: “Run to the port, and issue my order to the king of the chevaliers to prepare my galley for immediate departure. Do you follow with your polacre. Where did the coxswain Nicard meet the Red Galleon?”
“Near the island of St. Fereol, monseigneur.”
“Then we only need to watch the coast this side of the island of St. Fereol As soon as you put to sea, set all your sails so as to examine every point on the coast which may serve as a retreat for the pirates. If you see anything suspicious, give me warning. I will keep in sight of your vessel.”
“May Heaven bless your undertaking, monseigneur, and grant that I may be able to aid you.”
Luquin Trinquetaille, inspired by the hope of recovering Stephanette, and eager to wreak his vengeance upon the Bohemian, ran to the port in all possible haste.
Pierre des Anbiez returned to the baron’s chamber. The surgeon from the galley already saw signs of hope in the improved respiration and more quiet sleep of the wounded man. The commander gazed sadly and thoughtfully at his brother. Presentiments he could not conquer told him that this day would prove a fatal one to him. It grieved him much to leave the baron without being recognised by him, but time pressed, and he approached the bed, leaned over the patient, and, kissing his cold cheeks, said, in a low and broken voice: “Farewell, my poor brother, farewell.”
When he rose, his hard and austere countenance betrayed his emotion, and a tear flowed down his cheek.