“Yes,” he murmured; “yes. What do you want?”
Christian, guessed at the words, for in the tumult of the gale he could not hear them.
“Is it not better to take him below?” he shouted.
Then for the first time did the priest appear to remember that this was not one of the sailors.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, rising from his knees. “You are right; it is better. But I am afraid the men will not assist me. They are afraid of touching the dead when they are afloat.”
“I will help you,” said Christian simply, “and that man also, I think, because he proposed it.”
With a motion of the head he indicated Hoel Grall, upon whom the command of the little vessel had now devolved. The man was better educated than his companions, and spoke French fluently, but in the Breton character superstition is so deeply rooted that generations of education will scarcely eradicate it.
The priest looked into the Englishman's face with a gentle wonder in his eyes, which were shadowy with the fervour of his recent devotions. The two men were crouching low upon the deck, grasping the black rail with their left hands; the water washed backwards and forwards around their feet.
It was the first time they had seen each other face to face in open daylight, and their eyes met quietly and searchingly as they swayed from side to side with the heavy lurching of the ship. The Englishman spoke first.
“You must leave it to us,” he said calmly. “You could do nothing in this heavy sea with your one arm!”