The tears were in Jean's eyes.
"Gaston, can you ask it?" he cried out brokenly.
"Ay!" said Gaston, and his voice rang out in a strange, stern note, and his form, as he lifted himself up once more, seemed to possess again its old rugged strength. "Ay—I do more than ask it. Swear it, Jean! To a dying man and in God's presence, see, there is a crucifix there, swear that you will guard her and that you will let no harm come to her."
"I swear it, Gaston," said Jean, in a choking voice.
"It is well, then," Gaston murmured—and lay back upon the bed.
For a little while, Jean, dim-eyed, watched the other, a hundred reminiscences of their work together stabbing at his heart, and then he rose and began to remove what he could of the old fisherman's clothing.
"I will not touch the wound, Gaston," he said; "but the boots, mon brave, and—"
Gaston did not answer. He appeared to have sunk into a semi-stupor, from which even the removal of his clothes did not arouse him. Jean pulled a blanket up around the other's form, and sat down again in the chair.
Once, as Gaston muttered, Jean leaned forward toward the other.
"It is destiny—the Perigeau—the light is out—René, it is—" The words trailed off into incoherency.