“What do you think of a little promenade at sea?” Peyrol asked in a tone that was not unkindly.
Citizen Scevola, who had seemed totally and completely cast down and subdued, let out a most unexpected screech.
“Unbind me. Put me ashore.”
Michel, busy forward, was moved to smile as though he had possessed a cultivated sense of incongruity. Peyrol remained serious.
“You shall be untied presently,” he assured the blood-drinking patriot, who had been for so many years the reputed possessor not only of Escampobar but of the Escampobar heiress that, living on appearances, he had almost come to believe in that ownership himself. No wonder he screeched at this rude awakening. Peyrol raised his voice: “Haul on the line, Michel.”
As, directly the ropes had been let go, the tartane had swung clear of the shore, the movement given her by Michel carried her towards the entrance by which the basin communicated with the cove. Peyrol attended to the helm, and in a moment, gliding through the narrow gap, the tartane carrying her way, shot out almost into the middle of the cove.
A little wind could be felt, running light wrinkles over the water, but outside the overshadowed sea was already speckled with white caps. Peyrol helped Michel to haul aft the sheets and then went back to the tiller. The pretty spick-and-span craft that had been lying idle for so long began to glide into the wide world. Michel gazed at the shore as if lost in admiration. Citizen Scevola’s head had fallen on his knees while his nerveless hands clasped his legs loosely. He was the very image of dejection.
“Hé, Michel! Come here and cast loose the citizen. It is only fair that he should be untied for a little excursion at sea.”
When his order had been executed, Peyrol addressed himself to the desolate figure on the deck.
“Like this, should the tartane get capsized in a squall, you will have an equal chance with us to swim for your life.”