The house was deserted, and Doña Clara had disappeared.
The sailor took his captain on his shoulders and conveyed him to the boat, where he laid him as comfortably as he could in the stem sheets.
"Where are we going?" the master asked.
"To the French frigate; and make haste," Michael replied.
When the boat was alongside the frigate, Michael paid the master the promised reward, and then aided by several of the crew, conveyed the captain to his cabin. As it was eminently necessary to keep the Count's secret, and avoid arousing suspicions, the sailor in his report to the first commandant, ascribed to a violent fall from a horse, the condition in which the captain was; then, after making a signal to Bowline to follow him, he returned to the cabin.
M. de Barmont was still as motionless as if he were dead; the chief surgeon of the frigate in vain bestowed the greatest care on him without succeeding in recalling life, which seemed to have fled forever.
"Send away your assistants; Bowline and myself will suffice," Michael said to the doctor, with a meaning glance.
The surgeon comprehended, and dismissed the mates. When the door had closed on them the sailor drew the doctor into a gun berth, and said to him, in so low a voice as to be scarce audible—
"Major, the Commandant has just experienced a great sorrow, which produced the terrible crisis he is suffering from at this moment. I confide this to you because a surgeon is like a confessor."
"All right, my lad," the surgeon replied; "the Captain's secret has been trusted to sure ears."