“As a matter of fact, I didn’t, Yvonne,” said I. “But this is what I am going to do.”
Slipping off the irons I tossed them into the sea.
“Captain Wrye,” said I to him, with a bow, “I have much yet to do, and I must not stay here any longer. May I commit to your charge for a little while what is more precious than all else?”
Yvonne thanked me with a look, and laid her hand on the captain’s arm.
“We will dress your wound, monsieur,” said she. “Mother Pêche has a wondrous skill in such matters.” And she led the captain away.
By this Marc was come up, with a squad of his men fully armed. Some half score approached the second cabin. A window opened, a thin stream of fire flashed out, with a sharp report of a pistol; and a man fell, shot through the head. Another report, with the red streak in the front of it, and a tall Acadian threw up his arms, screamed chokingly, and dropped across a coil of rope.
The precise Lieutenant Shafto had awakened to the state of affairs.
“Down with the door, men, before he can load again!” shouted Marc, springing forward; and long Philibert picked up a light spar which lay at hand, very well suited to the purpose.
But there was no need of it. The door was thrown open, and in the light from Yvonne’s cabin was revealed the form of the English officer. He stood in his doorway, very angry and scornful, the point of his sword thrust passionately against the deck in front of him. A fine and a brave figure he was, as he stood there in his stockings, breeches, and fairly be-ruffled shirt—for he had not just now taken time to perfect his toilet with the customary care. In this attitude he paused for a second, lightly springing his sword, and scowling upon us.
“I must ask you to surrender, monsieur,” said Marc, advancing. “The ship is in our hands. I shall be glad to accept your parole.”