There remained one chance for life—to get on board the vessel. The yacht was filling fast, and in a few minutes would settle down.
Except one or two tried sailors—old comrades of mine—everybody on board was paralysed.
It was for me to act—to choose for all.
The choice was—Death or the Lépante.
I chose the Lépante.
A Frenchman stays at the post of duty.
As captain, I was responsible for the lives of all on board. I was, therefore, the last to leave the sinking Zéphire. Cécile was hoisted up the side of the Lépante first. I heard a shriek. In the just-beginning twilight I could see two figures.
A man’s and a woman’s. I knew them.
Marc had raised Cécile on to the deck of the Lépante, and had recognised her, and she him.