“The hour-glass is full; in a half-hour, if I do not return on board, you are to enter the bay and attack the pirates according to the orders which I have given to you; the black galley will fight the Red Galleon, and the boat will fight the other vessel.”
“Shall we begin the attack without waiting for you, M. Commander?” repeated the lieutenant, thinking he had not understood the instructions.
“You will begin the attack without waiting for me, if I do not return in a half-hour,” replied the commander, in a firm voice. One of his men brought to him his hat and large black mantle, on which was quartered the white cross of his order. He then left the galley, followed by Honorât, to the great astonishment of the chevaliers and the crew.
Hadji stood at the helm of the little boat; four Moorish slaves took the oars, and soon the light craft bounded over the swelling waves in the direction of the western point of the bay.
Pierre des Anbiez, wrapped in his mantle, turned his head and threw a last lingering look upon his galley, as if to assure himself of the reality of the events which were taking place. He felt himself dragged, so to speak, by an irresistible force to which he submitted in blind obedience.
After some moments of silence, he said to Hadji: “Where does that man expect me?”
“On the beach, near the ruins of the Abbey of St. Victor, monseigneur.”
“Make your crew row faster, they do not advance,” said Pierre des Anbiez, with feverish impatience.
“The waves are high, the cloud is gathering, and the wind is going to blow; the night will be bad,” said Hadji, in a low voice.
The commander, absorbed in his own thoughts, did not reply to him. The sun’s last rays were soon obscured by a large belt of black clouds, which, at first heavy and motionless upon the horizon, began to move with frightful rapidity. Deep and distant bursts of thunder, a phenomenon quite common during the winter season of Provence, announced one of those sudden hurricanes so frequent in the Mediterranean.