“Why doesn’t he run up his flag?” asked Clerbaut.
“I scarcely know, old friend. He has a reason for it, no doubt.”
“Your spy-glass, uncle?” said Marie, taking it from him. “I want to be the first to see him.”
“But he is my son, mademoiselle!”
“He has been your son for thirty years,” answered the young girl, laughing, “and he has only been my betrothed for two!”
The “Jeune-Hardie” was now entirely visible. Already the crew were preparing to cast anchor. The upper sails had been reefed. The sailors who were among the rigging might be recognized. But neither Marie nor Jean Cornbutte had yet been able to wave their hands at the captain of the ship.
“Faith! there’s the first mate, André Vasling,” cried Clerbaut.
“And there’s Fidèle Misonne, the carpenter,” said another.
“And our friend Penellan,” said a third, saluting the sailor named.
The “Jeune-Hardie” was only three cables’ lengths from the shore, when a black flag ascended to the gaff of the brigantine. There was mourning on board!