“‘By the holy heaven!’” repeated Gaspard, under his breath.
They walked forward. Almost as they did so there came a big puff of wind across the bay: one of those sudden currents that run in from the ocean and the gulf stream. Gaspard saw, and smiled. In a moment the vessel’s nose was towards the bay, and she sailed in, dipping a shoulder to the sudden foam. On she came past reef and bar, a pretty tumbril to the slaughter. The spray feathered up to her sails, the sun caught her on deck and beam; she was running dead for the needle of rock.
Brigond stood at Gaspard’s side. All at once Gaspard made the sacred gesture and said, in a low tone, as if only to himself: “Pardon, mon capitaine, mon Jesu!” Then he turned triumphantly, fiercely, upon Brigond. The pirate was startled. “What’s the matter?” he said.
Not Gaspard, but the needle rock replied. There was a sudden shock; the vessel stood still and shivered; lurched, swung shoulder downwards, reeled and struggled. Instantly she began to sink.
“The boats! lower the boats!” cried Brigond. “This cursed fool has run us on a rock!”
The waves, running high, now swept over the deck. Brigond started aft, but Gaspard sprang before him. “Stand back!” he called. “Where you are you die!”
Brigond, wild with terror and rage, ran at him. Gaspard caught him as he came. With vast strength he lifted him and dashed him to the deck. “Die there, murderer!” he cried.
Brigond crouched upon the deck, looking at him with fearful eyes. “Who-are you?” he asked.
“I am Gaspard the pilot. I have waited for you twenty years. Up there, in the snow, my wife and child died. Here, in this bay, you die.”
There was noise and racketing behind them, but they two heard nothing. The one was alone with his terror, the other with his soul. Once, twice, thrice, the vessel heaved, then went suddenly still.