"The Mercure!" cried an old woman. "Thank God!"
And a few minutes later, there was the Anne-Marie, all sail set over her green hull; and then a vessel which at first no one seemed to recognize.
"Which is that?" they asked. "Oh, it must be—yes, it is the Soleil, from Rivière Bourgeoise. She has several men from here aboard."
With eyes that seemed to be starting from her head, Zabette watched the Soleil entering the harbor. She could distinguish forms on deck. She saw handkerchiefs waving. At last she could begin to make out the faces a little. But she did not discover the one she sought. Holding tight to a mooring post, unable to think, unable to do anything but watch, it seemed to her that hours passed before the schooner cast anchor and a boat was put over. There were four persons in it: the mate and the three men from St. Esprit. They rowed rapidly to the wharf; and the three men threw up their gunny sacks and climbed the ladder, one after the other.
The mate was just about to put off again when Zabette spoke to him. She leaned over the edge of the wharf, reaching out a detaining hand.
"M'sieur!"
At the same instant the word was uttered by another voice close by. She looked up and saw Suzanne, very white, in the same attitude.
"What is it, mesdemoiselles?" asked the mate, touching his vizor.
As if by concerted arrangement came the question from both sides.