Moonbeams fell on Madame's silver hair, from which the heavy wrap had slipped back; they fell too, on the wrinkled, kindly face of Père Mouet.
So small, so helpless he looked lying there, yet never had he been so powerful. No wonder that he was smiling—the glad, sweet smile of one who had gone straight from his life-task to meet the Bridegroom.
But the life-work was not over, even though the worn old hands, which had always been so ready for any labour of love, were stiffening now in death.
The great crowd, gathered round, was swaying first one way, then another. Père Mouet was dead! Père Mouet was dead! Yonder stood his murderer.
They were honest men, after all, these humble peasants of Brittany.
Père Mouet, and the relentless antagonism of the sea, had taught them to fear God. If they had forgotten, in a sudden burst of mad excitement and intoxication, they were remembering with quick and sharpened stabs of conscience.
And Père Mouet was dead!
Madame was telling them so, even now, whilst she stood like some accusing spirit before them. Alone, but fearless, telling them this dread news.
Père Mouet dead! They were realizing it—to the cost of Jean Floessel.
With a yell they would have flung themselves upon him, but Jean had already seen his danger.